T 


MR,  AND  MRS^HALDEMAN-JULIUS 


OF  TriK 
UNIVERSITY 


DUST 


DUST 


BY 

MR.  AND  MRS.   HALDEMAN-JULIUS 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 


COPYRIGHT     IQ2I 
BY       BRENTANO'S 


First  printing,  March,  1921 
Second  printing,  April,  1921 
Third  printing,  June,  1921 


THE    PIIMPTON     PR  ESS  '  NORWOOD  -MASS- U  'S  '  A 


H  157 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  DUST  is  STIRRED 11 

II.  OUT  OF  THE  DUST 27 

III.  DUST  IN  HER  HEART 53 

IV.  A  ROSE-BUD  IN  THE  DUST 79 

V.  DUST  BEGETS  DUST    109 

VI.  DUST  IN  His  EYES 135 

VII.  MARTIN  BATTLES  WITH  DUST 157 

VIII.  THE  DUST  SMOTHERS 175 

IX.  MARTIN'S  SON  SHAKES  OFF  THE  DUST.  .  193 

X.  INTO  THE  DUST-BIN 221 

XI.  THE  DUST  SETTLES 239 


v 

M5751C-:; 


I 

THE  DUST  IS   STIRRED 


THE  DUST  IS  STIRRED 

DUST  was  piled  in  thick,  velvety  folds  on  the 
weeds  and  grass  of  the  open  Kansas  prairie ; 
it  lay,  a  thin  veil  on  the  scrawny  black 
horses  and  the  sharp-boned  cow  picketed  near  a 
covered  wagon;  it  showered  to  the  ground  in  little 
clouds  as  Mrs.  Wade,  a  tall,  spare  woman,  moved 
about  a  camp-fire,  preparing  supper  in  a  sizzling 
skillet,  huge  iron  kettle  and  blackened  coffee-pot. 
Her  husband,  pale  and  gaunt,  the  shadow  of  death 
in  his  weary  face  and  the  droop  of  his  body,  sat 
leaning  against  one  of  the  wagon  wheels  trying  to 
quiet  a  wailing,  emaciated  year-old  baby  while  little 
tow-headed  Nellie,  a  vigorous  child  of  seven,  frol 
icked  undaunted  by  the  August  heat. 

"Does  beat  all  how  she  kin  do  it,"  thought  Wade, 
listlessly. 

11 


12  DUST 

"Ma,"  she  shouted  suddenly,  in  her  shrill,  strident 
treble,  "I  see  Martin  comin'." 

The  mother  made  no  answer  until  the  strapping, 
fourteen-year-old  boy,  tall  and  powerful  for  his 
age,  had  deposited  his  bucket  of  water  at  her  side. 
As  he  drew  the  back  of  a  tanned  muscular  hand 
across  his  dripping  forehead  she  asked  shortly: 

"What  kept  you  so  long?" 

"The  creek's  near  dry.  I  had  to  follow  it  half  a 
mile  to  find  anything  fit  to  drink.  This  ain't  no  time 
of  year  to  start  farmin',"  he  added,  glum  and 
sullen. 

"I  s'pose  you  know  more'n  your  father  and 
mother/'  suggested  Wade. 

"I  know  who'll  have  to  do  all  the  work,"  the  boy 
retorted,  bitterness  and  rebellion  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  quit  your  arguin',"  commanded  the  mother. 
"We  got  enough  to  do  to  move  nearer  that  water 
tonight,  without  wastin'  time  talkin'.  Supper's 
ready." 

Martin  and  Nellie  sat  down  beside  the  red-and- 
white-checkered  cloth  spread  on  the  ground,  and 
Wade,  after  passing  the  still  fretting  baby  to  his 
wife,  took  his  place  with  them. 

"Seems  like  he  gets  thinner  every  day,"  he  com 
mented,  anxiously. 

With  a  swift  gesture  of  fierce  tenderness,  Mrs. 


THE  DUST  IS   STIRRED  13 

Wade  gathered  little  Benny  to  her.  "Oh,  God!"  she 
gasped.  "I  know  I'm  goin'  to  lose  him.  That 
cow's  milk  don't  set  right  on  his  stomach." 

"It  won't  set  any  better  after  old  Brindle  fills  up 
on  this  dust,"  observed  Martin,  belligerency  in  his 
brassy  voice. 

"That'll  do,"  came  sharply  from  his  father.  "I 
don't  think  this  is  paradise  no  more'n  you  do,  but 
we  wouldn't  be  the  first  who've  come  with  nothing 
but  a  team  and  made  a  living.  You  mark  what  I 
tell  you,  Martin,  land  ain't  always  goin'  to  be  had  so 
cheap  and  I  won't  be  living  this  time  another  year. 
Before  I  die,  I'm  goin'  to  see  your  mother  and  you 
children  settled.  Some  day,  when  you've  got  a  fine 
farm  here,  you'll  see  the  sense  of  what  I'm  doin' 
now  and  thank  me  for  it." 

The  boy's  cold,  blue  eyes  became  the  color  of  ice, 
as  he  retorted:  "If  I  ever  make  a  farm  out  o'  this 
dust,  I'll  sure  'ave  earned  it." 

"I  guess  your  mother'll  be  doin'  her  share  of  that, 
all  right.  And  don't  you  forget  it." 

As  he  intoned  in  even  accents,  Wade's  eyes,  so 
deep  in  their  somber  sockets,  dwelt  with  a  strange, 
wistful  compassion  on  his  faded  wife.  The  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  brought  out  the  drabness  of  her.  Al 
ready,  at  thirty-five,  grey  streaked  the  scanty,  dull 
hair,  wrinkles  lined  the  worn  olive-brown  face,  and 


U  DLJST 

the  tendons  of  the  thin  neck  stood  out.  Chaotically, 
he  compared  her  to  the  happy  young  girl  —  round 
of  cheek  and  laughing  of  eye  —  he  had  married  back 
in  Ohio,  fifteen  years  before.  It  comforted  him  a 
little  to  remember  he  hadn't  done  so  badly  by  her 
until  the  war  had  torn  him  from  his  rented  farm  and 
she  had  been  forced  to  do  a  man's  work  in  field  and 
barn.  Exposure  and  a  lung  wound  from  a  rebel 
bullet  had  sent  Wade  home  an  invalid,  and  during 
the  five  years  which  had  followed,  he  had  realized 
only  too  well  how  little  help  he  had  been  to  her. 

It  is  not  likely  he  would  have  had  the  iron  persist 
ency  of  purpose  to  drag  her  through  this  new  stern 
trial  if  he  had  not  known  that  in  her  heart,  as  in  his, 
there  gnawed  ever  an  all-devouring  hunger  to  work 
land  of  their  own,  a  fervent  aspiration  to  establish 
a  solid  basis  of  self-sustentation  upon  which  their 
children  might  build.  From  the  day  a  letter  had 
come  from  Peter  Mall,  an  ex-comrade  in  Wade's  old 
regiment,  saying  the  quarter-section  next  his  own 
could  be  bought  by  paying  annually  a  dollar  and 
twenty-five  cents  an  acre  for  seven  years,  their  hopes 
had  risen  into  determination  that  had  become  un 
shakable.  Before  the  eyes  of  Jacob  and  Sarah  Wade 
there  had  hovered,  like  a  promise,  the  picture  of  the 
snug  farm  that  could  be  evolved  from  this  virgin 
soil.  Strengthened  by  this  vision  and  stimulated  by 


THE   DUST  IS   STIRRED  15 

the  fact  of  Wade's  increasing  weakness,  they  had 
sold  their  few  possessions,  except  the  simplest  neces 
sities  for  camping,  had  made  a  canvas  cover  for  their 
wagon,  stocked  up  with  smoked  meat,  corn  meal  and 
coffee,  tied  old  Brindle  behind,  fastened  a  coop  of 
chickens  against  the  wagon-box  and,  without  falter 
ing,  had  made  the  long  pilgrimage.  Their  indomit 
able  courage  and  faith,  Martin's  physical  strength 
and  the  pulling  power  of  their  two  ring-boned  horses 
—  this  was  their  capital. 

It  seemed  pitifully  meager  to  Wade  at  that  de 
spondent  moment,  exhausted  as  he  was  by  the  long, 
hard  journey  and  the  sultry  heat.  Never  had  he 
been  so  taunted  by  a  sense  of  failure,  so  torn  by  the 
haunting  knowledge  that  he  must  soon  leave  his 
family.  To  die  —  that  was  nothing;  but  the  fears 
of  what  his  death  might  mean  to  this  group,  gripped 
his  heart  and  shook  his  soul. 

If  only  Martin  were  more  tender!  There  was 
something  so  ruthless  in  the  boy,  so  overbearing  and 
heartless.  Not  that  he  was  ever  deliberately  cruel, 
but  there  was  an  insensibility  to  the  feelings  of 
others,  a  capacity  placidly  to  ignore  them,  that  made 
Wade  tremble  for  the  future.  Martin  would  work, 
and  work  hard ;  he  was  no  shirk,  but  would  he  ever 
feel  any  responsibility  toward  his  younger  brother 
and  sister?  Would  he  be  loyal  to  his  mother?  Wade 


16  DUST 

wondered  if  his  wife  ever  felt  as  he  did  —  almost 
afraid  of  this  son  of  theirs.  He  had  a  way  of  making 
his  father  seem  foolishly  inexperienced  and  ineffec 
tual. 

"I  reckon,"  Wade  analysed  laboriously,  "it's  be 
cause  I'm  gettin'  less  able  all  the  time  and  he's  grow 
ing  so  fast  —  him  limber  an'  quick,  and  me  all 
thumbs.  There  ain't  nothing  like  just  plain  muscle 
and  size  to  make  a  fellow  feel  as  if  he  know'd 
it  all." 

Martin  had  never  seemed  more  competent  than 
this  evening  as,  supper  over,  he  harnessed  the  horses 
and  helped  his  mother  set  the  little  caravan  in  mo 
tion.  It  was  Martin  who  guided  them  to  the  creek, 
Martin  who  decided  just  where  to  locate  their  camp, 
Martin  who,  early  the  next  morning,  unloaded  the 
wagon  and  made  a  temporary  tent  from  its  cover, 
and  Martin  who  set  forth  on  a  saddleless  horse  in 
search  of  Peter  Mall.  When  he  returned,  the  big, 
kindly  man  came  with  him,  and  in  Martin's  arms 
there  squealed  and  wriggled  a  shoat. 

"A  smart  boy  you've  got,  Jacob,"  chuckled  Peter, 
jovially,  after  the  first  heart-warming  greetings. 
"See  that  critter!  Blame  me  if  Martin,  here,  didn't 
speak  right  up  and  ask  me  to  lend  'er  to  you!"  And 
he  collapsed  into  gargantuan  laughter. 

"I  promised  when  she'd  growed  up  and  brought 


THE   DUST   IS    STIRRED  1? 

pigs,  we'd  give  him  back  two  for  one,"  Martin  hastily 
explained. 

"That's  what  he  said,"  nodded  Peter,  carefully 
switching  his  navy  plug  to  the  opposite  cheek  before 
settling  down  to  reply,  "and  sez  I,  'Why,  Martin, 
what  d'ye  want  o'  that  there  shoat?  You  ain't  got 
nothin'  to  keep  her  on!'  'If  I  can  borrow  the  pig/ 
sez  he,  'I  reckon  I  can  borrow  the  feed  somewheres.' 
God  knows,  he'll  find  that  ain't  so  plentiful,  but  he's 
got  the  right  idea.  A  new  country's  a  poor  man's 
country  and  fellows  like  us  have  to  stand  together. 
It's  borrow  and  lend  out  here.  I  know  where  you  can 
get  some  seed  wheat  if  you  want  to  try  puttin'  it  in 
this  fall.  There's  a  man  by  the  name  of  Perry  — 
lives  just  across  the  Missouri  line  —  who  has 
thrashed  fifteen  hundred  bushel  and  he'll  lend  you 
three  hundred  or  so.  He's  willing  to  take  a  chance, 
but  if  you  get  a  crop  he  wants  you  should  give  him 
back  an  extra  three  hundred." 

It  was  a  hard  bargain,  but  one  that  Wade  could 
afford  to  take  up,  for  if  the  wheat  were  to  freeze  out, 
or  if  the  grasshoppers  should  eat  it,  or  the  chinch 
bugs  ruin  it,  or  a  hail  storm  beat  it  down  into  the 
mud,  or  if  any  of  the  many  hatreds  Stepmother  Na 
ture  holds  out  toward  those  trusting  souls  who  would 
squeeze  a  living  from  her  hard  hands  —  if  any  of 
these  misfortunes  should  transpire,  he  would  be  out 


18  DUST 

nothing  but  labor,  and  that  was  the  one  thing  he 
and  Martin  could  afford  to  risk. 

The  seed  deal  was  arranged,  and  Martin  made  the 
trip  six  times  back  and  forth,  for  the  wagon  could 
hold  only  fifty  bushels.  Perry  lived  twenty  miles 
from  the  Wades  and  a  whole  day  was  consumed  with 
each  load.  It  was  evening  when  Martin,  hungry 
and  tired,  reached  home  with  the  last  one;  and,  as 
he  stopped  beside  the  tent,  he  noticed  with  surprise 
that  there  was  no  sign  of  cooking.  Nellie  was  hud 
dled  against  her  mother,  who  sat,  idle,  with  little 
Benny  in  her  arms.  The  tragic  yearning  her  whole 
body  expressed,  as  she  held  the  baby  close,  arrested 
the  boy's  attention,  filled  him  with  clamoring  un 
easiness.  His  father  came  to  help  him  unhitch. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Benny?" 

Wade  looked  at  Martin  queerly.  "He's  dead. 
Died  this  mornin'  and  your  ma's  been  holding  him 
just  like  that.  I  want  you  should  ride  over  to  Peter's 
and  see  if  you  can  fetch  his  woman." 

"No!"  came  from  Mrs.  Wade,  brokenly,  "I  don't 
want  no  one.  Just  let  me  alone." 

The  shattering  anguish  in  his  mother's  voice  star 
tled  Martin,  stirred  within  him  tumultuous,  veiled 
sensations.  He  was  unaccustomed  to  seeing  her 
show  suffering,  and  it  embarrassed  him.  Restless 
and  uncomfortable,  he  was  glad  when  his  father 


THE   DUST   IS   STIRRED  19 

called  him  to  help  decide  where  to  dig  the  grave,  and 
fell  the  timber  from  which  to  make  a  rough  box. 
From  time  to  time,  through  the  long  night,  he  could 
not  avoid  observing  his  mother.  In  the  white  moon 
light,  she  and  Benny  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
carved  from  stone.  Dawn  was  breaking  over  them 
when  Wade,  surrendering  to  a  surge  of  pity,  put  his 
arms  around  her  with  awkward  gentleness.  "Ma, 
we  got  to  bury  'im." 

A  low,  half-suppressed  sob  broke  from  Mrs. 
Wade's  tight  lips  as  she  clasped  the  tiny  figure  and 
pressed  her  cheek  against  the  little  head. 

"I  can't  give  him  up,"  she  moaned,  "I  can't!  It 
wasn't  so  hard  with  the  others.  Their  sickness  was 
the  hand  of  God,  but  Benny  just  ain't  had  enough  to 
eat.  Seems  like  it'll  kill  me." 

With  deepened  discomfort,  Martin  hurried  to  the 
creek  to  water  the  horses.  It  was  good,  he  felt,  to 
have  chores  to  do.  This  knowledge  shot  through  him 
with  the  same  thrill  of  discovery  that  a  man  enjoys 
when  he  first  finds  what  an  escape  from  the  solidity 
<of  fact  lies  in  liquor.  If  one  worked  hard  and  fast 
one  could  forget.  That  was  what  work  did.  It  made 
one  forget  —  that  moan,  that  note  of  agony  in  his 
mother's  voice,  that  hurt  look  in  her  eyes,  that 
bronze  group  in  the  moonlight.  By  the  time  he  had 
finished  his  chores,  his  mother  was  getting  breakfast 


20  DUST 

as  usual.  With  unspeakable  relief,  Martin  noticed 
that  though  pain  haunted  her  face,  she  was  not  cry 
ing. 

"I  heard  while  I  was  over  in  Missouri,  yesterday/' 
he  ventured,  aof  a  one-room  house  down  in  the  In 
dian  Territory.  The  fellow  who  built  it's  give  up 
and  gone  back  East.  Maybe  we  could  fix  a  sledge 
and  haul  it  up  here." 

"I  ain't  got  the  strength  to  help,"  said  Wade. 

Martin's  eyes  involuntarily  sought  his  mother's. 
He  knew  the  power  in  her  lean,  muscular  arms,  the 
strength  in  her  narrow  shoulders. 

"We'd  better  fetch  it,"  she  agreed. 

The  pair  made  the  trip  down  on  horseback  and 
brought  back  the  shack  that  was  to  be  home  for 
many  years.  Eighteen  miles  off  a  man  had  some 
extra  hand-cut  shingles  which  he  was  willing  to  trade 
for  a  horse-collar.  While  Mrs.  Wade  took  the  long 
drive  Martin,  under  his  father's  guidance,  chopped 
down  enough  trees  to  build  a  little  lean-to  kitchen 
and  make-shift  stable.  Sixteen  miles  south  another 
neighbor  had  some  potatoes  to  exchange  for  a  hatch 
ing  of  chickens.  Martin  rode  over  with  the  hen  and 
her  downy  brood.  The  long  rides,  consuming  hours, 
were  trying,  for  Martin  was  needed  every  moment 
on  a  farm  where  everything  was  still  to  be  done. 

Day  by  day  Wade  was  growing  weaker,  and  it  was 


THE   DUST  IS   STIRRED  21 

Mrs.  Wade  who  helped  put  in  the  crop,  borrowing 
a  plow,  harrow,  and  extra  team,  and  repaying  the 
loan  with  the  use  of  their  own  horses  and  wagon. 
Luck  was  with  their  wheat,  which  soon  waved  green. 
It  seemed  one  of  life's  harsh  jests  that  now,  when 
the  tired,  ill-nourished  baby  had  fretted  his  last,  old 
Brindle,  waxing  fat  and  sleek  on  the  wheat  pasture, 
should  give  more  rich  cream  than  the  Wades  could 
use.  "He  could  have  lived  on  the  skimmed  milk  we 
feed  to  the  pigs,"  thought  Martin. 

In  the  Spring  he  went  with  his  father  into  Fallen, 
the  nearest  trading  point,  to  see  David  Robinson, 
the  owner  of  the  local  bank.  By  giving  a  chattel 
mortgage  on  their  growing  wheat,  they  borrowed 
enough,  at  twenty  per  cent,  to  buy  seed  corn  and 
a  plow.  It  was  Wade's  last  effort.  Before  the 
corn  was  in  tassel,  he  had  been  laid  beside  Benny. 

Martin,  who  already  had  been  doing  a  man's 
work,  now  assumed  a  man's  responsibilities.  Mrs. 
Wade  consulted  more  and  more  with  him,  relied 
more  and  more  upon  his  judgment.  She  was  im 
mensely  proud  of  him,  of  his  steadiness  and  dependa 
bility,  but  at  rare  moments,  remembering  her  own 
normal  childhood,  she  would  think  with  compunc 
tion:  "It  ain't  right.  Young  'uns  ought  to  have 
some  fun.  Seems  like  it's  makin'  him  too  old  for 
his  age."  She  never  spoke  of  these  feelings,  however. 


22  DUST 

There  were  no  expressions  of  tenderness  in  the  Wade 
household.  She  was  doing  her  best  by  her  children 
and  they  knew  it.  Even  Nellie,  child  that  she  was, 
understood  the  grimness  of  the  battle  before  them. 

They  were  able  to  thresh  enough  wheat  to  repay 
their  debt  of  six  hundred  bushels  and  keep  an  addi 
tional  three  hundred  of  seed  for  the  following  year. 
The  remaining  seven  hundred  and  fifty  they  sold  at 
twenty-five  cents  a  bushel  by  hauling  them  to  Fort 
Scott  —  thirty  miles  distant.  Each  trip  meant  ten 
dollars,  but  to  the  Wades,  to  whom  this  one  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  dollars  —  the  first  actual  money 
they  had  seen  in  over  a  year  —  was  a  fortune,  these 
journeys  were  rides  of  triumph,  fugitive  flashes  of 
glory  in  the  long,  gray  struggle. 

That  Fall  they  paid  the  first  installment  of  two 
hundred  dollars  on  their  land  and  Martin  persuaded 
his  mother  to  give  and  Robinson  to  take  a  chattel 
on  their  two  horses,  old  Brindle,  her  calf  and  the 
pigs,  that  other  much-needed  implements  might  be 
bought.  Mrs.  Wade  toiled  early  and  late,  doing  part 
of  the  chores  and  double  her  share  of  the  Spring 
plowing  that  Martin,  as  well  as  Nellie,  could  attend 
school  in  Fallen. 

"I  don't  care  about  goin',"  he  had  protested 
squirmingly. 

But  on  this  matter  his  mother  was  without  com- 


THE   DUST   IS    STIRRED  23 

promise.  "Don't  say  that/'  she  had  commanded,  her 
voice  shaken  and  her  eyes  bright  with  the  intensity 
of  her  emotion;  "you're  goin'  to  get  an  education." 

And  Martin,  surprised  and  embarrassed  by  his 
mother's  unusual  exhibition  of  feeling,  had  answered, 
roughly:  "Aw,  well,  all  right  then.  Don't  take  on. 
I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't,  did  I?" 

He  was  twenty-three  and  Nellie  sixteen  when, 
worn  out  and  broken  down  before  her  time,  her  re 
sistance  completely  undermined,  Mrs.  Wade  died 
suddenly  of  pneumonia.  Within  the  year  Nellie 
married  Bert  Mall,  Peter's  eldest  son,  and  Martin, 
at  once,  bought  out  her  half  interest  in  the  farm, 
stock  and  implements,  giving  a  first  mortgage  to 
Robinson  in  order  to  pay  cash. 

"I'm  making  it  thirty  dollars  an  acre,"  he  ex 
plained. 

"That's  fair,"  conceded  the  banker,  "though  the 
time  will  come  when  it  will  be  cheap  at  a  hundred 
and  a  half.  There's  coal  under  all  this  county, 
millions  of  dollars'  worth  waiting  to  be  mined." 

"Maybe,"  assented  Martin,  laconically. 

As  he  sat  in  the  dingy,  little  backroom  of  the  bank, 
while  Robinson's  pen  scratched  busily  drawing  up 
the  papers,  he  was  conscious  of  an  odd  thrill.  The 
land  —  it  was  all  his  own!  But  with  this  thrill 
welled  a  wave  of  resentment  over  what  he  consid- 


24  DUST 

ered  a  preposterous  imposition.  Who  had  made  the 
land  into  a  farm?  What  had  Nellie  ever  put  into 
it  that  it  should  be  half  hers?  His  mother  —  now, 
that  was  different.  She  and  he  had  toiled  side  by 
side  like  real  partners;  her  efforts  had  been  real  and 
unstinted.  If  he  were  buying  her  out,  for  instance 
—  but  Nellie!  Well,  that  was  the  way,  he  noticed, 
with  many  women  —  doing  little  and  demanding 
much.  He  didn't  care  for  them;  not  he.  From  the 
day  Nellie  left,  Martin  managed  alone  in  the  shack, 
"baching  it,"  and  putting  his  whole  heart  and  soul 
into  the  development  of  his  quarter-section. 


II 

OUT   OF   THE  DUST 


II 

OUT   OF   THE  DUST 

AT  thirty- four,  Martin  was  still  unmarried, 
and  though  he  had  not  travelled  far  on  that 
strange  road  to  affluence  which  for  some 
seems  a  macadamized  boulevard,  but  for  so  many, 
like  himself,  a  rough  cow-path,  he  had  done  better 
than  the  average  farmer  of  Fallon  County.  To  be 
sure,  this  was  nothing  over  which  to  gloat.  A  man 
who  received  forty  cents  a  bushel  for  wheat  was 
satisfied;  corn  sold  at  twenty-eight  cents,  and 
the  hogs  it  fattened  in  proportion.  But  his 
hundred  and  sixty  acres  were  clear  from  debt, 
four  thousand  dollars  were  on  deposit  drawing 
three  per  cent  in  The  First  State  Bank  —  the 
old  Bank  of  Fallon,  now  incorporated  with  Rob 
inson  as  its  president.  In  the  pasture,  four 
teen  sows  with  their  seventy-five  spring  pigs  rooted 
beside  the  sleek  herd  of  steers  fattening  for  market ; 
the  granary  bulged  with  corn ;  two  hundred  bushels 
of  seed  wheat  were  ready  for  sowing;  his  machinery 
was  in  excellent  condition ;  his  four  Percheron  mares 
brought  him,  each,  a  fine  mule  colt  once  a  year;  and 
the  well  never  went  dry,  even  in  August.  Martin 

27 


28  DUST 

was  —  if  one  discounted  the  harshness  of  the  life, 
the  dirt,  the  endless  duties  and  the  ever-pressing 
chores  —  a  Kansas  plutocrat. 

One  fiery  July  day,  David  Robinson  drew  up  be 
fore  Martin's  shack.  The  little  old  box-house  was 
still  unpainted  without  and  unpapered  within.  Two 
chairs,  a  home-made  table  with  a  Kansas  City  Star 
as  a  cloth,  a  sheetless  bed,  a  rough  cupboard,  a  stove 
and  floors  carpeted  with  accumulations  of  untidiness 
completed  the  furnishings. 

"Chris-to-pher  Columbus!"  exploded  Robinson, 
"why  don't  you  fix  yourself  up  a  bit,  Martin?  The 
Lord  knows  you're  going  to  be  able  to  afford  it. 
What  you  need  is  a  wife  —  someone  to  look  after 
you."  And  as  Martin,  observing  him  calmly,  made 
no  response,  he  added,  "I  suppose  you  know  what  I 
want.  You've  been  watching  for  this  day,  eh,  Mar 
tin?  All  Fallen  County's  sitting  on  its  haunches  — 
waiting." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  been  worrying.  A  fellow  situated 
like  me,  with  a  hundred  and  sixty  right  in  the  way 
of  a  coal  company,  can  afford  to  be  independent." 

"You  understand  our  procedure,  Martin,"  Robin 
son  continued.  "We  are  frank  and  aboveboard.  We 
set  the  price,  and  if  you  can't  see  your  way  clear  to 
take  it  there  are  no  hard  feelings.  We  simply  call 
it  off  —  for  good." 


OUT  OF  THE   DUST  29 

Wade  knew  how  true  this  was.  When  the  mining 
first  began,  several  rebels  toward  the  East  had  tried 
profitlessly  to  buck  this  irrefragable  game  and  had 
found  they  had  battered  their  unyielding  heads 
against  an  equally  unyielding  stone  wall.  These  men 
had  demanded  more  and  Robinson's  company,  true 
to  its  threat,  had  urbanely  gone  around  their  farms, 
travelled  on  and  left  them  behind,  their  coal  un 
touched  and  certain  to  so  remain.  Such  inelastic 
lessons,  given  time  to  soak  in,  were  sobering. 

"Now,"  said  Robinson,  in  his  amiable  matter-of- 
fact  manner,  "as  I  happen  to  know  the  history  of 
this  quarter,  backwards  and  forwards,  we  can  do 
up  this  deal  in  short  order.  You  sign  this  contract, 
which  is  exactly  like  all  the  others  we  use,  and  I'll 
hand  over  your  check.  We  get  the  bottom;  you  keep 
the  top;  I  give  you  the  sixteen  thousand,  and  the 
thing  is  done." 

"Well,  Martin,"  he  added,  genially,  as  Wade 
signed  his  name,  "it's  a  long  day  since  you  came  in 
with  your  father  to  make  that  first  loan  to  buy  seed 
corn.  Wouldn't  he  have  opened  his  eyes  if  any  one 
had  prophesied  this?  It's  a  pity  your  mother 
couldn't  have  lived  to  enjoy  your  good  fortune.  A 
fine,  plucky  woman,  your  mother.  They  don't  make 
many  like  her." 

Long  after  Robinson's  buggy  was  out  of  sight, 


30  DUST 

Martin  stood  in  his  doorway  and  stared  at  the  five 
handsome  figures,  spelled  out  the  even  more  con 
vincing  words  and  admired  the  excellent  reproduc 
tion  of  The  First  State  Bank. 

"This  is  a  whole  lot  of  money/'  his  thoughts  ran. 
"I'm  rich.  All  this  land  still  mine  —  practically  as 
much  mine  as  ever  —  all  this  stock  and  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  in  money  —  in  cash.  It's  a  fact.  I, 
Martin  Wade,  am  rich." 

He  remembered  how  he  had  exulted,  how  jubilant, 
even  intoxicated,  he  had  felt  when  he  had  received 
the  ten  dollars  for  the  first  load  of  wheat  he  had 
hauled  to  Fort  Scott.  Now,  with  a  check  for  sixteen 
thousand  —  sixteen  thousand  dollars!  —  in  his 
hand,  he  stood  dumbly,  curiously  unmoved. 

Slowly,  the  first  bitter  months  on  this  land,  little 
Benny's  death  from  lack  of  nourishment,  his  father's 
desperate  efforts  to  establish  his  family,  the  years  of 
his  mother's  slow  crucifixion,  his  own  long  struggle 
—  all  floated  before  him  in  a  fog  of  reverie.  Years 
of  deprivation,  of  bending  toil  and  then,  suddenly, 
this  had  come  —  this  miracle  symbolized  by  this 
piece  of  paper.  Martin  moistened  his  lips.  Men 
tally,  he  realized  all  the  dramatic  significance  of  what 
had  happened,  but  it  gave  him  none  of  the  elation  he 
had  expected. 

This  bewildered  and  angered  him.    Sixteen  thou- 


OUT   OF    THE    DUST  31 

sand  dollars  and  with  it  no  thrill.  What  was  lack 
ing?  As  he  pondered,  puzzled  and  disappointed,  it 
came  to  him  that  he  needed  something  by  which  to 
measure  his  wealth,  someone  whose  appreciation  of 
it  would  make  it  real  to  him,  give  him  a  genuine 
sense  of  its  possession.  What  if  he  were  to  take 
Robinson's  advice:  fix  up  a  bit  and  —  marry? 

Nellie  had  often  urged  the  advantages  of  this,  but 
he  had  never  had  much  to  do  with  women ;  they  did 
not  belong  in  his  world  and  he  had  not  missed  them  ; 
he  had  never  before  felt  a  need  of  marriage.  Upon 
the  few  occasions  when,  driven  by  his  sister's  per 
sistence,  he  had  vaguely  considered  it,  he  had  shrunk 
away  quickly  from  the  thought  of  the  unavoidable 
changes  which  would  be  ushered  in  by  such  a  step. 
This  shack,  itself  —  no  one  whom  he  would  want 
would,  in  this  day,  consent  to  live  in  it,  and,  if  he 
should  marry,  his  wife  must  be  a  superior  woman, 
good  looking,  and  with  the  push  and  energy  of  his 
mother.  He  thought  of  all  she  had  meant  to  his 
father;  and  there  was  Nellie,  not  to  be  spoken  of 
in  the  same  breath,  yet  making  Bert  Mall  a  good 
wife.  ,  What  a  cook  she  was !  Memories  of  her  hot, 
fluffy  biscuits,  baked  chicken,  apple  pies  and  deli 
cious  coffee,  carried  trailing  aromas  that  set  his  nos 
trils  twitching.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  have 
satisfying  meals  once  more,  to  be  relieved,  too,  of 


32  DUST 

the  bother  of  the  three  hundred  chickens,  to  have 
some  one  about  in  the  evenings.  True,  there  would 
be  expense,  oh,  such  expense  —  the  courting,  the 
presents,  the  wedding,  the  building,  the  furniture, 
and,  later,  innumerable  new  kinds  of  bills.  But 
weren't  all  the  men  around  him  married?  Surely, 
if  they,  not  nearly  as  well  off  as  himself,  could  af 
ford  it,  so  could  he. 

Besides,  wasn't  it  all  different  now  that  he  held 
this  check  in  his  hand?  These  sixteen  thousand 
dollars  were  not  the  same  dollars  which  he  had  ex 
torted  from  close-fisted  Nature.  Each  of  those  had 
come  so  lamely,  was  such  a  symbol  of  sweat  and 
aching  muscles,  that  to  spend  one  was  like  parting 
with  a  portion  of  himself,  but  this  new,  almost  in 
credible  fortune,  had  come  without  a  turn  of  his 
hand,  without  an  hour's  labor.  To  Martin,  the  dis 
tinction  was  sharp  and  actual. 

He  figured  quickly.  Five  thousand  dollars  would 
do  wonders.  With  that  amount,  he  would  build  so 
substantially  that  his  neighbors  could  no  longer  feel 
the  disapprobation  in  which,  according  to  Nellie,  he 
was  beginning  to  be  held,  because  of  his  sordid,  her 
mit-like  life.  That  five  thousand  could  buy  many 
cows  and  additional  acreage  —  but  just  now  a  home 
and  a  wife  would  be  better  investments.  Yes,  he 
would  marry  and  a  house  should  be  his  bait.  That 


OUT   OF   THE    DUST  33 

was  settled.  He  would  drive  into  Fallen  at  once  to 
see  the  carpenter  and  deposit  the  check. 

He  was  already  out  of  the  house  when  a  thought 
struck  him.  Suppose  he  were  to  meet  just  the 
woman  he  might  want?  These  soiled,  once-blue 
overalls,  these  heavy,  manure-spotted  shoes,  this 
greasy,  shapeless  straw  hat,  with  its  dozen  matches 
showing  their  red  heads  over  the  band,  the  good 
soils  and  fertilizers  of  Kansas  resting  placidly  in  his 
ears  and  the  lines  of  his  neck  —  such  a  Romeo  might 
not  tempt  his  Juliet;  he  must  spruce  up. 

On  an  aged  soap-box  behind  the  house,  several 
inches  of  grey  water  in  a  battered  tin-pan  indicated 
a  previous  effort.  He  tossed  the  greasy  liquid  to  the 
ground  and  from  the  well,  near  the  large,  home-built 
barn,  refilled  the  make-shift  basin.  Martin's  ab 
lutions  were  always  a  strenuous  affair.  In  his 
cupped  hands  he  brought  the  water  toward  his  face 
and,  at  the  moment  he  was  about  to  apply  it,  made 
pointless  attempts  to  blow  it  away.  This  blowing 
and  sputtering  indicated  the  especial  importance  of 
an  occasion  —  the  more  important,  the  more  vigor 
ously  he  blew.  Today,  the  cold  water  gave  a  healthy 
glow  to  his  face,  which,  after  much  stropping  of  his 
razor,  he  shaved  of  a  week's  growth  of  beard,  tawny 
as  his  thick,  crisp  hair  where  the  sun  had  not  yet 
bleached  it.  This,  he  soaked  thoroughly,  in  lieu  of 


34  DUST 

brushing,  before  using  a  crippled  piece  of  comb.  The 
dividing  line  between  washed  and  unwashed  was 
one  inch  above  his  neckband  and  two  above  his 
wrists.  Even  when  fresh  from  a  scrubbing,  his  hands 
were  not  entirely  clean.  They  had  been  so  long  in 
contact  with  the  earth  that  it  had  become  absorbed 
into  the  very  pores  of  his  skin ;  but  they  were  power 
ful  hands,  interesting,  with  long  palms  and  spatulate 
fingers.  The  black  strips  at  the  end  of  each  nail, 
Martin  pared  off  with  his  jackknife. 

He  entered  the  house  a  trifle  nervously,  positive 
that  his  only  clean  shirt,  at  present  spread  over  his 
precious  shot-gun,  had  been  worn  once  more  than 
he  could  have  wished,  but,  after  all,  how  much  of 
one's  shirt  showed?  It  would  pass.  The  coat-shirt 
not  yet  introduced,  a  man  had  to  slip  the  old- 
fashioned  kind  over  his  head,  drag  it  down  past  his 
shoulders  and  poke  blindly  for  the  sleeve  openings. 
Martin  was  thankful  when  he  felt  the  collar  buttons 
in  their  holes.  His  salt  and  pepper  suit  was  of  a 
stiff,  unyielding  material,  and  the  first  time  he  had 
worn  it  the  creases  had  vanished  never  to  return. 
Before  putting  on  his  celluloid  collar,  he  spat  on  it 
and  smeared  it  off  with  the  tail  of  his  shirt.  A  re 
calcitrant  metal  shaper  insisted  on  peeking  from  un 
der  his  lapels,  and  his  ready-made  tie  with  its  two 
grey  satin-covered  cardboard  wings  pushed  out  of 


OUT   OF    THE    DUST  35 

sight,  see-sawed,  necessitating  frequent  adjustments. 
His  brown  derby,  the  rim  of  which  made  almost 
three  quarters  of  a  circle  at  each  side,  seemed  to 
want  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from  his  ears  and,  at 
the  same  time,  remain  perched  on  his  head.  The  yel 
low  shoes  looked  as  though  each  had  half  a  billiard 
ball  in  the  toe,  and  the  entire  tops  were  perforated 
with  many  diverging  lines  in  an  attempt  for  the 
decorative.  Those  were  the  days  of  sore  feet  and 
corns!  Hart  Schaffner  and  Marx  had  not  yet  be 
come  rural  America's  tailor.  Sartorial  magicians  in 
Chicago  had  not  yet  won  over  the  young  men  of 
the  great  corn  belt,  with  their  snappy  lines  and  style 
for  the  millions.  In  1890,  when  a  suit  served  merely 
as  contrast  to  a  pair  of  overalls,  the  Martin  Wades 
who  would  clothe  themselves  pulled  their  garments 
from  the  piles  on  long  tables.  It  was  for  the  next 
generation  to  patronize  clothiers  who  kept  each  suit 
on  its  separate  hanger.  A  moving-picture  of  the 
tall,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  as,  with  creaking  steps, 
he  walked  from  the  house,  might  bring  a  laugh  from 
the  young  farmers  of  this  more  fastidious  day,  but 
Martin  was  dressed  no  worse  than  any  of  his  neigh 
bors  and  far  better  than  many.  Health,  vigor,  stur- 
diness,  self-reliance  shone  from  him,  and  once  his 
make-up  had  ceased  to  obtrude  its  clumsiness,  he 
struck  one  as  handsome.  His  was  a  commanding 


36  DUST 

physique,  hard  as  the  grim  plains  from  which  he 
wrested  his  living. 

As  Martin  drove  into  Fallon,  his  attention  was 
directed  toward  the  architecture  and  the  women. 
He  observed  that  the  average  homes  were  merely  a 
little  larger  than  his  own  —  four,  six,  or  eight  rooms 
instead  of  one,  made  a  little  trimmer  with  neat 
porches  and  surrounded  by  well-cut  lawns,  instead 
of  weeds.  He,  with  his  new  budget,  could  do  better. 
Even  Robinson's  well-constructed  residence  had 
probably  cost  only  three  thousand  more  than  he 
himself  planned  to  spend.  Its  suggestion  of  origi 
nality  had  been  all  but  submerged  by  carpenters 
spoiled  through  constant  work  on  commonplace 
buildings.  But  to  Martin  it  was  a  marvellous  man 
sion.  He  told  himself  that  with  such  a  place  moved 
out  to  his  quarter-section,  he  could  have  stood  on 
his  door-step  and  chosen  whomever  he  wished  for 
a  wife. 

It  was  an  elemental  materialism,  difficult  to  un 
derstand,  but  it  was  a  language  very  clear  to  Martin. 
Marriage  with  the  men  and  women  of  his  world  was 
a  practical  business,  arranged  and  conducted  by 
practical  people,  who  lived  practical  lives,  and  died 
practical  deaths.  The  women  who  might  pass  his 
way  could  deny  their  lust  for  concrete  possessions, 
but  their  actions,  however  concealed  their  motives, 


OUT    OF    THE    DUST  37 

would  give  the  lie  to  any  ineffectual  glamour  of 
romance  they  might  attempt  to  fling  over  their  care 
fully  measured  adventures  of  the  heart. 

Martin  smiled  cynically  as  he  let  his  thoughts 
drift  along  this  channel.  "What  a  lot  of  bosh  is 
talked  about  lovers/7  his  comment  ran.  "As  if 
everyone  didn't  really  know  how  much  like  drunken 
men  they  are  —  saying  things  which  in  a  month 
they'll  have  forgotten.  Folks  pretend  to  approve 
of  'em  and  all  the  while  they're  laughing  at  'em  up 
their  sleeves.  But  how  they  respect  a  man  who's 
got  the  root  they're  all  grubbing  for!  It  may  be 
the  root  of  all  evil,  but  it's  a  fact  that  everything 
people  want  grows  from  it.  They  hate  a  man  for 
having  it,  but  they'd  like  to  be  him.  Their  hearts 
have  all  got  strings  dangling  from  'em,  especially  the 
women's.  A  house  tied  onto  the  other  end  ought  to 
be  hefty  enough  to  fetch  the  best  of  the  lot." 

Who  could  she  be,  anyway?  Was  she  someone  in 
Fallon?  He  drove  slowly,  thinking  over  the  families 
in  the  different  houses  —  four  to  each  side  of  the 
block.  The  street,  even  yet,  was  little  more  than 
a  country  road.  There  was  no  indication  of  the  six 
miles  of  pavement  which  later  were  to  be  Fallon's 
pride.  It  had  rained  earlier  in  the  week  and  Martin 
was  obliged  to  be  careful  of  the  chuck-holes  in  the 
sticky,  heavy  gumbo  soon  to  be  the  bane  of  pioneers 


38  DUST 

venturing  forth  in  what  were  to  be  known  for  a  few 
short  years  as  "horseless  carriages.'7 

Bumping  along  he  recalled  to  his  mind  the  various 
girls  with  whom  he  had  gone  to  school.  As  if  the 
sight  of  the  building,  itself,  would  sharpen  his  mem 
ory,  he  turned  north  and  drove  past  it.  Like  its 
south,  east  and  west  counterparts,  it  was  a  solid  two- 
story  brick  affair.  In  time  it  would  be  demolished 
to  make  way  for  what  would  be  known  as  the  "Em 
erson  School,"  in  which,  to  be  worthy  of  this  high 
title,  the  huge  stoves  would  be  supplanted  with  hot- 
water  pipes,  oil  lamps  with  soft,  indirect  lighting, 
and  unsightly  out-buildings  with  modern  plumbing. 
The  South  building  would  become  the  "Whittier 
School,"  the  East,  the  "Longfellow,"  and  the  West, 
not  to  be  neglected  by  culture's  invasion,  the  "Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes."  But  these  changes  were  still  to 
be  effected.  Many  a  school  board  meeting  was  first 
to  be  split  into  stormy  factions  of  conservatives 
fighting  to  hold  the  old,  and  of  anarchists  threaten 
ing  civilization  with  their  clamors  for  experimenta 
tion.  Many  a  bond  election  was  yet  to  rip  the  town 
in  two,  with  the  retired  farmers,  whose  children  were 
grown  and  through  school,  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  were  and  parents  of  the  new  generation  de 
manding  gymnasiums,  tennis  courts,  victrolas,  do 
mestic  science  laboratories,  a  public  health  nurse 


OUT   OF   THE   DUST  39 

and  individual  lockers.  Yes,  and  the  faddists  were 
to  win  despite  the  other  side's  incontrovertible  evi 
dence  that  Fallon  was  headed  for  bankruptcy  and 
that  the  proposed  bonds  and  outstanding  ones  could 
never  be  met. 

Martin  drove,  meditatively,  around  the  school- 
house  and  was  still  engrossed  in  the  problem  of 
"Who?"  when  he  reached  the  Square.  The  neat 
canvas  drops  of  later  years  had  not  yet  replaced  the 
wooden  awnings  which  gave  to  the  town  such  a  de 
cidedly  western  appearance  and  which  threw  the 
sidewalks  and  sheltered  windows  into  deep  pools  of 
shadow.  The  old  brick  store-building  which  housed 
The  First  State  Bank  was  like  a  cool  cavern.  He 
brought  out  the  check  quietly  but  with  a  full  con 
sciousness  that  with  one  gesture  he  was  shoving 
enough  over  that  scratched  and  worn  walnut  counter 
to  buy  out  half  the  bank. 

James  Osborne,  the  youthful  cashier,  feigned  com 
plete  paralysis. 

"Why  don't  you  give  a  poor  fellow  some  warn 
ing?"  he  beamed  good-naturedly,  "or  maybe  you 
think  youVe  strayed  into  Wall  Street.  This  is  Fal 
lon.  Fallon,  Kansas.  So  you've  had  your  merry 
little  session  with  Robinson?  Put  it  here!"  and  he 
extended  a  cordial  hand. 

"Oh,  considering  the  wait,  it  isn't  so  wonderful. 


40  DUST 

Sixteen  thousand  is  an  awful  lot  when  it's  coming, 
but  it  just  seems  about  half  as  big  when  it  gets 
here." 

Martin  was  talking  not  so  much  for  Osborne's 
benefit  as  to  impress  a  woman  who  had  entered  be 
hind  him  and  was  awaiting  her  turn.  He  wondered 
why,  in  his  mental  quest,  he  had  not  thought  of  her. 
Here  was  the  very  person  for  whom  he  was  looking. 
Rose  Conroy,  the  editor  of  the  better  local  weekly, 
a  year  or  so  younger  than  himself,  pleasant,  capable. 
Here  was  a  real  woman,  one  above  the  average  in 
character  and  brains. 

With  a  quick  glance  he  took  in  her  well-built 
figure.  Everything  about  Rose  —  every  line,  every 
tone  of  her  coloring  suggested  warmth,  generosity, 
bigness.  She  was  as  much  above  medium  height  for 
a  woman  as  Martin  for  a  man.  About  her  temples 
the  line  of  her  bright  golden-brown  hair  had  an 
oddly  pleasing  irregularity.  The  rosy  color  in  her 
cheeks  brought  out  the  rich  creamy  whiteness  of 
her  skin.  Warm,  gray-blue  eyes  were  set  far  apart 
beneath  a  kind,  broad  forehead  and  her  wide,  gen 
erous  mouth  seemed  made  to  smile.  The  impression 
of  good  temper  and  fun  was  accented  by  her  nose, 
ever  so  slightly  up-tilted.  Some  might  have  thought 
Rose  too  large,  her  hips  too  rounded,  the  soft  deep 
bosom  too  full,  but  Martin's  eyes  were  approving. 


OUT   OF    THE    DUST  41 

Even  her  hands,  plump,  with  broad  palms,  square 
fingers  and  well-kept  nails,  suggested  decision.  He 
felt  the  quiet  distinction  of  her  simple  white  dress. 
She  was  like  a  full-blown,  luxuriant  white  and  gold 
flower  —  like  a  rose,  a  full-blown  white  rose,  Martin 
realized,  suddenly.  One  couldn't  call  her  pretty,  but 
there  was  something  about  her  that  gave  the  im 
pression  of  sumptuous  good  looks.  He  liked,  too, 
the  spirited  carriage  of  her  head.  "Healthy,  good- 
sense,  sound  all  through,"  was  his  final  appraise 
ment. 

Pocketing  his  bank-book,  he  gave  her  a  sharp  nod, 
a  colorless  "how-de-do,  Miss  Rose,"  and  a  tip  of  the 
hat  that  might  have  been  a  little  less  stiff  had  he 
been  more  accustomed  to  greeting  the  ladies.  "Right 
well,  thank  you,  Martin,"  was  her  cordial  response, 
and  her  friendly  smile  told  him  she  had  heard  and 
understood  the  remarks  about  the  big  deal.  He  was 
curious  to  know  how  it  had  impressed  her. 

Hurrying  out,  he  asked  himself  how  he  could  be 
gin  advances.  Either  he  must  do  something  quickly 
in  time  to  get  home  for  the  evening  chores  or  he 
must  wait  until  another  day.  He  must  think  out  a 
plan,  at  once.  Passing  the  bakery,  half  way  down 
the  block,  he  dropped  in,  ordered  a  chocolate  ice 
cream  soda,  and  chose  a  seat  near  the  window.  As 
he  had  expected,  it  was  not  long  before  he  saw  Rose 


42  DUST 

go  across  the  courthouse  yard  toward  her  office  on 
the  north  side  of  the  square.  He  liked  the  swift, 
easy  way  in  which  she  walked.  She  had  been  walk 
ing  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  her,  thirteen  years 
before,  when  her  father  had  led  his  family  uptown 
from  the  station,  the  day  of  their  arrival  in  Fallon. 
Patrick  Conroy  had  come  from  Sharon,  Illinois, 
to  perform  the  thankless  task  of  starting  a  weekly 
newspaper  in  a  town  already  undernourishing  one. 
By  sheer  stubbornness  he  had  at  last  established  it. 
Twelve  hundred  subscribers,  their  little  printing 
jobs,  advertisers  who  bought  liberal  portions  of 
space  at  ten  cents  an  inch  —  all  had  enabled  him  to 
give  his  children  a  living  that  was  a  shade  better 
than  an  existence.  He  had  died  less  than  a  year  ago, 
and  Martin,  like  the  rest  of  the  community,  had  sup 
posed  the  Fallon  Independent  would  be  sold  or  sus 
pended.  Instead,  as  quietly  and  matter-of-factly 
as  she  had  filled  her  dead  mother's  place  in  the  home 
while  her  brothers  and  sisters  were  growing  up,  Rose 
stepped  into  her  father's  business,  took  over  the  edi 
torship  and  with  a  boy  to  do  the  typesetting  and 
presswork,  continued  the  paper  without  missing  an 
issue.  It  even  paid  a  little  better  than  before,  partly 
because  it  flattered  Fallon's  sense  of  Christian  help 
fulness  to  throw  whatever  it  could  in  Rose's  way, 
but  chiefly  because  she  made  the  Independent  a 


OUT   OF    THE    DUST  43 

livelier  sheet  with  double  the  usual  number  of  "Per 
sonals." 

Yes,  decidedly,  Rose  had  force  and  push.  Mar 
tin's  mind  was  made  up.  He  would  drop  into  the 
Independent  ostensibly  to  extend  his  subscription, 
but  really  to  get  on  more  intimate  terms  with  the 
woman  whom  he  had  now  firmly  determined  should 
become  his  wife.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relaxa 
tion  and  finished  the  glass  of  sweetness  with  that 
sense  of  self-conscious  sheepishness  which  most  men 
feel  when  they  surrender  to  the  sticky  charms  of  an 
ice-cream  soda.  A  few  minutes  later  he  stood  be 
side  Rose's  worn  desk. 

"How-do-you-do,  once  more,  Miss  Rose  of  Sharon. 
You're  not  the  Bible's  Rose  of  Sharon,  are  you?" 
he  joshed  a  bit  awkwardly. 

"If  I  were  a  rose  of  anywhere,  I'd  soon  wilt  in  this 
stuffy  little  office  of  inky  smells,"  she  answered 
pleasantly.  "A  rose  would  need  petals  of  leather 
to  get  by  here." 

"A  rose,  by  rights,  belongs  out  of  doors,"  —  Mar 
tin  indicated  the  direction  of  his  farm — "out  there 
where  the  sun  shines  and  there's  no  smells  except 
the  rich,  healthy  smells  of  nature." 

A  merry  twinkle  appeared  in  Rose's  eyes.  "Aren't 
roses  out  there"  —  and  her  gesture  was  in  the  same 
direction  —  "rather  apt  to  be  crowded  down  by  the 
weeds?" 


44  DUST 

"Not  if  there  was  a  good  strong  man  about  —  a 
man  who  wanted  to  cultivate  the  soil  and  give  the 
rose  a  pretty  place  in  which  to  bloom." 

"Why,  Martin/'  Rose  laughed  lightly,  "the  way 
you're  fixed  out  there  with  that  shack,  the  only 
thing  that  ever  blooms  is  a  fine  crop  of  rag-weeds." 

At  this  gratuitous  thrust  a  flood  of  crimson  surged 
up  Martin's  magnificent,  column-like  throat  and 
broke  in  hot  waves  over  his  cheeks.  "Well,  it's  not 
going  to  be  that  way  for  long,"  he  announced  evenly. 
"I'm  going  to  plant  a  rose  —  a  real  rose  there  soon 
and  everything  is  going  to  be  right  —  garden,  house 
and  all." 

"Is  this  your  way  of  telling  me  you're  going  to  be 
married?" 

"Kinda.  The  only  trouble  is,  I  haven't  got  my 
rose  yet." 

"Well,  if  I  can't  have  that  item,  at  least  I  can 
print  something  about  the  selling  of  your  coal  rights. 
People  will  be  interested  because  it  shows  the  opera 
tors  are  coming  in  our  direction.  Here  in  Fallon,  we 
can  hardly  realize  all  that  this  sudden  new  promo 
tion  may  mean.  From  that  conversation  I  heard  at 
the  bank  I  guess  you  got  the  regulation  hundred  an 


acre." 


"Yes,  and  a  good  part  of  it  is  going  into  a  first- 
class  modern  house  with  a  heating  plant  and  run- 


OUT   OF   THE   DUST  45 

ning  hot  and  cold  water  in  a  tiled-floor  bath-room, 
and  a  concrete  cellar  for  the  woman's  preserved 
things  and  built-in  cupboards,  lots  of  closets,  a  big 
garret,  and  hardwood  floors  and  fancy  paper  on  the 
walls,  and  the  prettiest  polished  golden  oak  furni 
ture  you  can  buy  in  Kansas  City,  not  to  mention  a 
big  fireplace  and  wide,  sunny  porches.  A  rose  ought 
to  be  happy  in  a  garden  like  that,  don't  you  think? 
Folks'll  say  I've  gone  crazy  when  they  see  my  build 
ing  spree,  but  I  know  what  I'm  about.  It's  time  I 
married  and  the  woman  who  decides  to  be  my  wife 
is  going  to  be  glad  to  stay  with  me  — " 

"See  here,  Martin  Wade,  what  are  you  driving  at? 
What  does  all  this  talk  mean  anyway?  Do  you 
want  me  to  give  you  a  boost  with  someone?" 

"You've  hit  it." 

"Who  is  she?"  Rose  asked,  with  genuine  curiosity. 

"You,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Well,  of  all  the  proposals!" 

"There's  nothing  to  beat  around  the  bush  about. 
I'm  only  thirty-four,  a  hard  worker,  with  a  tidy  sum 
to  boot  —  not  that  I'm  boasting  about  it." 

"But,  Martin,  what  makes  you  think  I  could  make 
you  happy?" 

Martin  felt  embarrassed.  He  was  not  looking  for 
happiness  but  merely  for  more  of  the  physical  com 
forts,  and  an  escape  from  loneliness.  He  was  practi- 


46  DUST 

cal;  he  fancied  he  knew  about  what  could  be 
expected  from  marriage,  just  as  he  knew  exactly 
how  many  steers  and  hogs  his  farm  could  support. 
This  was  a  new  idea  —  happiness.  It  had  never 
entered  into  his  calculations.  Life  as  he  knew  it 
was  hard.  There  was  no  happiness  in  those  fields 
when  burned  by  the  hot  August  winds,  the  soil 
breaking  into  cakes  that  left  crevices  which  seemed 
to  groan  for  water.  That  sky  with  its  clouds  that 
gave  no  rain  was  a  hard  sky.  The  people  he  knew 
were  sometimes  contented,  but  he  could  not  remem 
ber  ever  having  known  any  to  whom  the  word 
"happy"  could  be  applied.  His  father  and  mother 
—  they  had  been  a  good  husband  and  wife.  But 
happy?  They  had  been  far  too  absorbed  in  the 
bitter  struggle  for  a  livelihood  to  have  time  to  think 
of  happiness.  This  had  been  equally  true  of  the 
elder  Malls,  was  true  today  of  Nellie  and  her  hus 
band.  A  man  and  a  woman  needed  each  other's 
help,  could  make  a  more  successful  fight,  go  farther 
together  than  either  could  alone.  To  Martin  that 
together  than  either  could  alone.  To  Martin  that  was 
the  whole  matter  in  a  nutshell,  and  Rose's  gentle 
question  threw  him  into  momentary  confusion. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  uneasily.  "We  both 
like  to  make  a  success  of  things  and  we'd  have 
plenty  to  do  with.  We'd  make  a  pretty  good  pull 
ing  team." 


OUT   OF   THE   DUST  47 

Rose  considered  this  thoughtfully.  "Perhaps  the 
people  who  work  together  best  are  the  happiest.  But 
somehow  I'd  never  pictured  myself  on  a  farm." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  expect  you  to  make  up  your 
mind  right  away,"  Martin  conceded.  "It's  some 
thing  to  study  over.  I'll  come  around  to  your  place 
tomorrow  evening  after  I  get  the  chores  done  up 
and  we  can  talk  some  more." 

So  far  as  Martin  was  concerned,  the  matter  was 
clinched.  He  felt  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that 
it  was  merely  a  question  of  time  before  Rose  would 
consent  to  his  proposition. 

After  he  had  left,  she  reviewed  it  a  little  sadly. 
It  wasn't  the  kind  of  marriage  of  which  she  had 
always  dreamed.  She  realized  that  she  was  capable 
of  profound  devotion,  of  responding  with  her  whole 
being  to  a  deep  love.  But  was  it  probable  that  this 
love  would  ever  come?  She  thought  over  the  men 
of  Fallon  and  its  neighborhood.  There  were  few  as 
handsome  as  Martin  —  not  one  with  such  generous 
plans.  She  knew  her  own  domestic  talents.  She 
was  a  born  housekeeper  and  home-maker.  It  had 
been  a  curious  destiny  that  had  driven  her  into  a 
newspaper  office,  and  at  that  very  moment,  there 
lay  on  her  desk,  like  a  whisper  from  Fate,  the  written 
offer  from  the  rival  paper  to  buy  her  out  for  fifteen 
hundred  dollars,  giving  herself  a  position  on  the  con- 


48  DUST 

solidated  staff.    She  had  been  pondering  over  this 
proposal  when  Martin  interrupted  her. 

It  wasn't  as  if  she  were  younger  or  likely  to  start 
somewhere  else.  She  would  live  out  her  life  in  Fal- 
lon,  that  she  knew.  There  was  little  chance  of  her 
meeting  new  men,  and  those  established  enough  to 
make  marriage  with  them  desirable  were  already 
married.  Candidly,  she  admitted  that  if  she  turned 
Martin  Wade  down  now,  she  might  never  have  an 
other  such  opportunity.  If  only  she  could  feel  that 
he  cared  for  her  —  loved  her.  But  wasn't  the  fact 
that  he  was  asking  her  to  be  his  wife  proof  of  that? 
It  was  very  strange.  She  had  never  suspected  that 
Martin  had  ever  felt  drawn  to  her.  With  a  sigh  she 
pressed  her  large,  capable  hands  to  her  heart.  Its 
deep  piercing  ache  brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  She 
felt,  bitterly,  that  she  was  being  cheated  of  too  much 
that  was  sweet  and  precious  —  it  was  all  wrong  — 
she  would  be  making  a  mistake.  For  a  moment,  she 
was  overwhelmed.  Then  the  practical  common 
sense  that  had  been  instilled  into  her  from  her 
earliest  consciousness,  even  as  it  had  been  instilled 
into  Martin,  reasserted  itself.  After  all,  perhaps 
he  was  right  —  the  busy  people  were  the  happy 
people.  Many  couples  who  began  marriage  madly 
in  love  ended  in  the  divorce  courts.  Martin  was 
kind  and  it  would  be  wonderful  to  have  the  home 


OUT   OF    THE    DUST  49 

he  had  described.  She  imagined  herself  mistress  of 
it,  thrilled  with  the  warm  hospitality  she  would 
radiate,  entertained  already  at  missionary  meetings 
and  at  club.  At  least,  she  would  be  less  lonely.  It 
would  be  a  fuller  life  than  now.  What  was  she  get 
ting,  really  getting,  alone,  out  of  this  world?  She 
and  Martin  would  be  good  partners.  Poor  boy! 
What  a  long,  hard,  cheerless  existence  he  had  led. 
Tenderness  welled  in  her  heart  and  stilled  its  pain. 
Perhaps  his  emotions  were  far  deeper  than  he  could 
express  in  words.  His  way  was  to  plan  for  her  com 
fort.  Wasn't  there  something  big  about  his  simple 
cards-on-the-table  wooing?  And  he  had  called  her 
his  rose,  his  Rose  of  Sharon.  The  new  house  was 
to  be  the  garden  in  which  she  should  blossom.  To 
be  sure,  he  had  said  it  all  awkwardly,  but  Rose,  who 
was  devout,  knew  the  stately  Song  of  Solomon  and 
as  she  recalled  the  magnificent  outburst  of  passion 
she  almost  let  herself  be  convinced  that  Martin  was 
a  poet-lover  in  the  rough. 

And  all  the  while,  giving  pattern  to  her  flying 
thoughts,  the  contents  of  a  letter,  received  the  day 
before,  echoed  through  her  mind.  Her  sister,  Norah, 
the  youngest  of  the  family,  had  told  of  her  first 
baby.  "We  have  named  her  for  you,  darling,"  she 
wrote.  "Oh,  Rose,  she  has  brought  me  such  deep 
happiness.  I  wonder  if  this  ecstasy  can  last.  Her 


50  DUST 

little  hand  against  my  breast  —  it  is  so  warm  and 
soft  —  like  a  flower's  curling  petal,  as  delicate  and 
as  beautiful  as  a  butterfly's  wing.  I  never  knew 
until  now  what  life  really  meant."  As  Rose  reread 
the  throbbing  lines  and  pictured  the  eager-eyed 
young  mother,  her  own  sweet  face  glowed  with  re 
flected  joy  and  with  the  knowledge  that  this  ecstasy, 
this  deeper  understanding  could  come  to  her,  too  — 
Martin,  he  was  vigorous,  so  worthy  of  being  the 
father  of  her  children.  He  would  love  them,  of 
course,  and  provide  for  them  better  than  any  other 
man  she  knew.  Had  not  Norah  married  a  plain 
farmer  who  was  only  a  tenant?  The  new  little 
Rose's  father  was  not  to  be  compared  to  Martin,  and 
yet  he  had  brought  the  supreme  experience  to  her 
sister.  So  Rose  sat  dreaming,  the  arid  level  of  mo 
notonous  days  which,  one  short  hour  ago,  had 
stretched  before  her,  flowering  into  fragrant,  sun- 
filled  fields. 

Meanwhile,  Martin  congratulated  himself  upon 
having  found  a  woman  as  sensible,  industrious  and 
free  from  foolish  notions,  as  even  he  could  wish. 


Ill 

DUST   IN   HER  HEAET 


Ill 

DUST  IN  HER  HEART 

SIX  weeks  later  Martin  and  Rose  were  married. 
Martin  had  let  the  contract  for  the  new  house 
and  barn  to  Silas  Fletcher,  Fallon's  leading 
carpenter,  who  had  the  science  of  construction  re 
duced  to  utter  simplicity.  He  had  listened  to  Mar 
tin's  description  of  what  he  wished  and,  after  some 
rough  figuring,  had  proceeded  to  draw  the  plans  on 
the  back  of  a  large  envelope.  Both  Rose  and  Martin 
knew  that  those  rude  lines  would  serve  unfailingly. 
For  three  thousand  dollars  Fletcher  would  build  the 
very  house  Martin  had  pictured  to  Rose :  a  two-story 
one  with  four  nice  rooms  and  a  bath  upstairs,  four 
rooms  and  a  pantry  downstairs,  a  floored  garret,  con 
crete  cellar,  an  inviting  fireplace  and  wide  porches. 
For  two  thousand  dollars  he  would  give  a  substan 
tial  barn  capable  of  holding  a  hundred  tons  of  hay 
and  of  accommodating  twenty  cows  and  four  horses. 
Rose  had  been  deeply  touched  by  the  thorough 
ness  of  Martin's  plans,  by  his  unfailing  considera 
tion  for  her  comfort.  True,  there  had  been  moments 
when  her  warm,  loving  nature  had  been  chilled.  At 

S8 


54  DUST 

such  times,  misgivings  had  clamored  and  she  had, 
finally,  all  but  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  him  that 
she  could  not  go  on  —  that  it  had  all  been  a  mistake. 
She  would  say  to  him,  she  had  decided:  "Martin, 
you  are  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  men,  and  I  could 
be  happy  with  you  if  only  you  loved  me,  but  you 
don't  really  care  for  me  and  you  never  will.  I  feel 
it.  Oh,  I  do !  and  I  could  not  bear  it  —  to  live  with 
you  day  in  and  day  out  and  know  that." 

But  she  had  reckoned  without  her  own  goodness  of 
heart.  On  the  very  evening  on  which  she  had  quite 
determined  to  tell  Martin  this  decision  he  also  had 
arrived  at  one.  As  soon  as  he  had  entered  Rose's 
little  parlor  he  had  exclaimed  with  an  enthusiasm 
unusual  with  him:  "We  broke  the  ground  for  your 
new  garden,  today,  Rose  of  Sharon,  and  Fletcher 
wants  to  see  you.  There  are  some  more  little  things 
you'll  have  to  talk  over  with  him.  He  understands 
that  you're  the  one  I  want  suited." 

Rose  had  felt  suddenly  reassured.  Why,  she  had 
asked  herself  contritely,  couldn't  she  let  Martin  ex 
press  his  love  in  his  own  way?  Why  was  she  always 
trying  to  measure  his  feelings  for  her  by  set 
standards? 

"I've  been  wondering,"  he  had  gone  on  quickly, 
"what  you  would  think  of  putting  up  with  my  old 
shack  while  the  new  house  is  being  built?  It 


DUST  IN  HER  HEART  55 

wouldn't  be  as  if  you  were  going  to  live  there  for 
long  and  you'd  be  right  on  hand  to  direct  things." 

"Why,  I  could  do  that,  of  course,"  she  had  an 
swered  pleasantly.  "If  you've  lived  there  all  these 
years,  I  surely  ought  to  be  able  to  live  there  a  few 
months,  but  Martin — " 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  he  had  inter 
rupted  hastily.  "You  think  we  ought  to  wait  a 
while  longer,  but  if  we're  going  to  pull  together  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives  why  mightn't  we  just  as  well 
begin  now?  Why  is  one  time  any  better  than  an 
other?" 

There  had  been  a  wistfulness,  so  rarely  in  Mar 
tin's  voice,  that  Rose  had  detected  it  instantly. 
After  all,  why  should  she  keep  him  waiting  when  he 
needed  her  so  much,  she  had  thought  tenderly,  all 
the  sweet  womanliness  in  her  astir  with  yearnings 
to  lift  the  cloud  of  loneliness  from  his  life. 

Rose  had  always  believed  love  a  breath  of  beauty 
that  would  hold  its  purity  even  in  a  hovel,  but  she 
had  not  been  prepared  for  the  sordidness  that 
seemed  to  envelop  her  as  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  first  home  of  her  married  life.  Martin,  held 
in  the  clutch  of  the  strained  embarrassment  that  in 
variably  laid  its  icy  fingers  around  his  heart  when 
ever  he  found  himself  confronted  by  emotion,  had 
suggested  that  Rose  go  in  while  he  put  up  the  horse 


56  DUST 

and  fed  the  stock.  "Don't  be  scared  if  you  find  it 
pretty  rough/'  he  had  warned,  to  which  her  light 
answer  had  lilted  back,  "Oh,  I  shan't  mind." 

And,  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment  later, 
her  eyes  taking  in  one  by  one,  the  murky  windows, 
the  dirty  floor,  the  unwashed  dishes,  the  tumbled 
bed,  the  rusty,  grease  bespattered  stove  choked  with 
cold  ashes,  she  told  herself  hotly  that  it  was  not  the 
dirt  nor  even  the  desperate  crassness  that  was 
smothering  her  joy.  It  was  the  fact  that  there  was 
nowhere  a  touch  to  suggest  preparation  for  her 
home-coming.  Martin  had  made  not  even  the 
crudest  attempt  to  welcome  her.  It  would  have 
been  as  easy  for  Rose  to  be  cheerful  in  the  midst  of 
mere  squalor  as  for  a  flower  to  bloom  white  in  a 
crowded  tenement,  but  at  the  swift  realization  of 
the  lack  of  tenderness  for  her  which  this  indifference 
to  her  first  impressions  so  clearly  expressed,  her  faith 
in  the  man  she  had  married  began  to  wither.  He 
had  failed  her  in  the  very  quality  in  which  she  had 
put  her  trust.  Already,  he  had  carelessly  dropped 
the  thoughtfulness  by  which  he  had  won  her.  She 
wondered  how  she  could  have  made  herself  believe 
that  Martin  loved  her.  "He  has  tried  so  hard  in 
every  way  to  show  me  how  much  I  would  mean  to 
him,"  she  justified  herself.  "But  now  he  has  me  he 
just  doesn't  care  what  I  think." 


DUST  IN   HER   HEART  57 

As  Rose  forced  herself  to  face  this  squarely,  some 
thing  within  her  crumpled.  Grim  truth  leered  at 
her,  hurling  dust  on  her  bright  wings  of  illusion, 
poking  cruel  jests.  "This  is  your  wedding  day,"  it 
taunted,  "that  tall  figure  out  there  near  the  dilapi 
dated  barn  feeding  his  hogs  is  your  husband.  Oh, 
first,  sweet,  most  precious  hours!  How  you  will 
always  like  to  remember  them!  Here  in  this  dirty 
shanty  you  will  enter  into  love's  fulfillment.  How 
romantic!  Why  doesn't  your  heart  leap  and  your 
arms  ache  for  your  new  passion?"  Tears  pushed 
against  her  eyelids.  Her  new  life  was  not  going  to 
be  happy.  Of  this  she  was  suddenly,  irrevocably 
certain. 

Rose  struggled  against  a  complete  break-down. 
This  was  no  time  for  a  scene.  What  was  the  matter 
with  her,  anyway?  Of  course,  Martin  had  not  meant 
to  disappoint  her,  nor  deliberately  hurt  her.  He 
probably  thought  this  first  home  so  temporary  it 
didn't  count.  She  simply  would  not  mope.  Of  that 
she  was  positive,  and  a  brave  little  smile  swimming 
up  from  her  troubled  heart,  she  set  about,  with  much 
energy,  to  achieve  order,  valiantly  fighting  back  her 
insistent  tears  as  she  worked. 

Meanwhile,  Martin,  totally  oblivious  of  any  cause 
for  storm,  was  making  trips  to  and  from  the  barrel 
which  contained  shorts  mixed  with  water,  skimmed 


58  DUST 

milk  and  house  slops,  the  screaming,  scrambling 
shoats  gulping  the  pork-making  mixture  as  rapidly 
as  he  could  fetch  it.  He  worked  unconsciously, 
thinking,  typically,  not  of  Rose's  reaction  to  this 
new  life,  but  of  what  it  held  in  store  for  himself. 

He  glanced  toward  the  shack.  Already  the  mere 
fact  of  a  woman's  presence  beneath  its  roof  seemed, 
to  him,  to  give  it  a  different  aspect.  Through  the 
open  door  he  observed  that  Rose  was  sweeping. 
How  he  had  always  hated  the  thought  of  any  one 
handling  what  was  his!  He  dumped  another  bucket 
of  slops  into  the  home-made  trough.  Why  couldn't 
she  just  let  things  alone  and  get  supper  quietly? 
Heaven  only  knew  what  he  had  gotten  himself  into! 
But  of  one  thing  he  was  miserably  certain;  never 
again  would  he  have  that  comfortable  seclusion  to 
which  he  had  grown  so  accustomed.  He  had  known 
this  would  be  true,  but  the  sight  of  Rose  and  her 
broom  brought  the  realization  of  it  home  to  him 
with  an  all  too  irritating  vividness.  Yes,  everything 
was  going  to  be  different.  There  would  be  many 
changes  and  he  would  never  know  what  to  expect 
next.  Why  had  he  brought  this  upon  himself;  had 
he  not  lived  alone  for  years?  He  had  let  the  habit 
of  obtaining  whatever  he  started  after  get  the  better 
of  him.  Even  today  he  could  have  drawn  back  from 
this  marriage.  But,  he  had  sensed  that  Rose  was 


DUST  IN   HER  HEART  59 

about  to  do  so  herself,  and  this  knowledge  had 
pushed  his  determination  to  the  final  notch. 

Martin  shook  his  head  ruefully.  "This  is  The 
Song  of  Songs,"  he  smiled,  "and  there  is  my  Rose 
of  Sharon.  Guess  I  was  never  intended  for  a  Solo 
mon."  Now  that  she  was  so  close  to  him,  in  the 
very  core  of  his  life,  this  woman  frightened  him; 
instead  of  desire,  there  was  dread.  He  wished  Rose 
had  been  a  man  that  he  might  go  into  that  shack 
and  eat  ham  and  eggs  with  him  while  they  talked 
crops  and  politics  and  animals.  There  would  be  no 
thrills  in  this  opening  chapter  and  he,  if  not  his  wife, 
would  be  shaken. 

Martin  was  mental,  an  incurable  individualist 
who  found  himself  sufficient  unto  himself.  He  was 
different  from  his  neighbors  in  that  he  was  always 
thinking,  asking  questions  and  pondering  over  his 
conclusions.  He  had  convinced  himself  that  each 
demand  of  the  body  was  useless  except  the  food  that 
nourished  it,  the  clothes  that  warmed  it  and  the 
sleep  that  repaired  it.  He  hated  soft  things  and  the 
twist  in  his  mind  that  was  Martin  proved  to  him 
their  futility.  Love?  It  was  an  empty  dream,  a  shell 
that  fooled.  Its  joys  were  fleeting.  There  was  but 
one  thing  worth  while  and  that  was  work.  The  body 
was  made  for  it  —  the  thumb  to  hold  the  hammer, 
the  hand  to  pump  the  water  and  drive  the  horses, 


60  DUST 

the  legs  to  follow  the  plow,  herd  the  cattle  and  chase 
the  pigs  from  the  cornfield,  the  ears  to  listen  for 
strange  noises  from  the  stock,  the  eyes  to  watch  for 
weeds  and  discover  the  lice  on  the  hens,  the  mouth 
to  yell  the  food  call  to  the  calves,  the  back  to  carry 
the  bran.  Work  meant  money,  and  money  meant  — 
what?  It  was  merely  a  stick  that  measured  the 
amount  of  work  done.  Then  why  did  he  toil  so  hard 
and  save  so  scrupulously?  His  answer  was  al 
ways  another  question.  What  was  there  in  life  that 
could  enable  one  to  forget  it  faster?  That  woman 
in  there  waiting  for  him  —  oh,  she  would  suffer  be 
fore  she  realized  the  truth  of  this  lesson  he  had  al 
ready  learned,  and  Martin  felt  a  little  pity  for  her. 

When  he  went  in  for  supper,  Rose  was  just  be 
ginning  to  prepare  it.  With  a  catch  of  anger  in  his 
manner,  he  gave  her  a  sharp  look  and  saw  that  she 
had  been  crying.  He  couldn't  remember  ever  before 
having  had  to  deal  with  a  weeping  woman;  even 
when  Benny  had  died  and  his  mother  had  been  so 
shaken  she  had  not  given  way  to  tears;  so  this  was 
to  be  another  of  the  new  experiences  which  must  trot 
in  with  marriage.  It  annoyed  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  Rose?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Martin." 

"Nothing?  You  don't  cry  about  nothing,  do  you?" 

"No."    Rose  felt  a  sudden  fear;  she  sensed  a  lack 


DUST  IN   HER   HEART  61 

of  pity  in  Martin,  an  unwillingness  even  to  try  to 
understand  her  conflicting  emotions. 

"Then  you're  crying  about  something.  What  is 
it?"  There  was  command  in  his  question.  Martin 
was  losing  patience.  He  knew  tears  were  used  as 
weapons  by  women,  but  why  in  the  world  should 
Rose  need  any  sort  of  weapon  on  the  first  day  of 
their  marriage?  He  hadn't  done  anything  to  her, 
said  anything  unkind.  Was  she  going  to  be  unrea 
sonable?  Now  he  was  sure  it  was  all  wrong. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded,  his  voice 
rising. 

"Nothing's  the  matter.  I'm  just  a  little  nervous." 
Rose  began  to  cry  afresh.  If  only  Martin  had  come 
to  her  and  put  his  arms  around  her,  she  would  have 
been  able  to  throw  off  her  newly-born  fear  of  him 
and  this  disheartening  shattering  of  her  faith  in  his 
kindness.  But  he  was  going  to  the  other  extreme, 
growing  harder  as  she  was  becoming  more  panicky. 

"Nervous?  What's  there  to  be  nervous  about?" 
Rose's  answer  was  stifled  sobbing.  "You're  not  sorry 
you  married  today,  I  hope?"  She  shook  her  head. 
"Then  what's  this  mean,  anyway?" 

"I  was  wondering  if  we  are  going  to  be  happy  after 
all—" 

"Happy?  You  don't  like  this  place.  That's  the 
trouble.  I  was  afraid  of  this,  but  I  thought  you 


62  DUST 

knew  what  you  were  about  when  you  said  you  could 
stand  it  for  a  while." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  house  itself,  Martin/'  she  has 
tened  to  correct  truthfully,  sure  that  she  had  gone 
too  far.  "I  —  I  —  know  we'll  be  happy." 

Again  this  talk  about  happiness.  He  did  not  like 
it.  He  had  never  hunted  for  happiness,  and  he  was 
contented.  Why  should  she  persist  in  this  eternal 
search  for  this  impossible  condition?  He  supposed 
that  occasionally  children  found  themselves  in  it, 
but  surely  grown-ups  could  not  expect  it.  The 
nearest  they  could  approach  it  was  in  forgetting  that 
there  was  such  a  state  by  finding  solace  in  constant 
occupation. 

"Let's  eat,"  he  announced.  "I'm  sick  of  this 
wrangling.  Seems  to  me  you're  not  starting  off  just 
right." 

Rose  hastened  to  prepare  the  meal,  finding  it  more 
difficult  to  be  cheerful  as  she  realized  how  indifferent 
Martin  was  to  her  feelings,  if  only  she  presented  a 
smooth  surface.  He  had  not  seemed  even  to  notice 
how  orderly  and  freshened  everything  was.  She 
thought  of  the  new  experience  soon  to  be  hers. 
Could  it  make  up  for  all  the  understanding  and 
friendly  appreciation  that  she  saw  only  too  clearly 
would  be  missing  in  her  daily  life?  Resolutely,  she 
suppressed  her  doubts. 


DUST  IN  HER  HEART  63 

Martin,  bothered  by  an  odd  feeling  of  strangeness 
in  the  midst  of  his  own  familiar  surroundings, 
smoked  his  pipe  in  silence  and  studied  Rose  soberly. 
Why,  he  asked  himself,  was  he  unmoved  by  a  woman 
who  was  so  attractive?  He  liked  the  deftness  with 
which  her  hands  worked  the  pie  dough,  the  quick 
way  she  moved  between  stove  and  table,  yet  mingled 
with  this  admiration  was  a  slight  but  distinct  hos 
tility.  How  can  one  like  and  have  an  aversion  to 
a  person  at  the  same  time?  he  pondered.  "I  sup 
pose,"  he  concluded  grimly,  "it's  because  I'm  sup 
posed  to  love  and  adore  her  —  to  pretend  a  lot  of 
extravagant  feelings." 

His  mind  travelled  to  the  stock  in  the  pasture. 
How  stolid  they  were  and  how  matter  of  fact  and 
how  sensible.  They  affected  no  high,  nonsensical 
sentiments.  Weren't  they,  after  all,  to  be  envied, 
rooted  as  they  were  in  their  solid  simplicity?  Why 
should  human  beings  everlastingly  try  so  hard  to 
be  different?  He  and  Rose  would  have  to  get  down 
to  a  genuine  basis,  and  the  quicker  the  better. 
Meanwhile  he  must  remember  that,  whether  he  was 
glad  or  sorry,  she  was  there,  in  his  shack,  because  he 
had  asked  her  to  come. 

As  he  ate  his  second  helping  of  the  excellent  meal, 
he  said  pleasantly:  "You  do  know  how  to  cook, 
Rose." 


64  DUST 

Her  soft  gray-blue  eyes  brightened.  "I  love  to 
do  it,"  she  answered  quickly.  "You  must  tell  me  the 
things  you  like  best,  Martin.  If  I  had  a  real  stove 
with  a  good  oven,  I  could  do  much  better." 

"Could  you?    We'll  get  one  tomorrow." 

"That'll  be  fine!"  she  smiled,  eager  to  have  all 
serene  between  them,  and  as  she  passed  him  to  get 
some  coffee  her  hand  touched  his  in  a  swift  caress. 
Instantly,  Martin's  cordiality  vanished ;  his  hostility 
toward  her  surged.  Even  as  a  boy  he  had  hated  to 
be  "fussed  over."  Well,  he  had  married  and  he 
would  go  through  with  it.  If  only  Rose  would  be 
more  matter  of  fact;  not  look  at  him  with  that  ex 
pression  which  made  him  think  of  a  confiding  child. 
What  business  had  a  grown  woman  with  such  trust 
in  her  eyes,  anyway? 

It  was  quite  gone,  in  the  early  dawn,  as  Rose  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  looking  at  her  husband. 
Never  had  she  felt  so  far  from  him,  so  certain  that 
he  did  not  love  her,  as  when  she  had  lain  quivering 
but  impassive  in  his  arms.  "I  might  be  just  any 
woman,"  she  had  told  herself,  astounded  and  stricken 
to  find  how  little  she  was  touched  by  this  experience 
which  she  had  always  believed  bound  heart  to  heart 
and  crowned  the  sweet  transfusion  of  affection  from 
soul  into  soul.  "It  doesn't  make  any  more  difference 
to  him  who  I  am  than  who  cooks  for  him." 


DUST  IN   HER   HEART  65 

Not  that  Martin  had  been  unkind,  except  nega 
tively.  Intuitively,  Rose  understood  that  their  first 
evening  and  night  foreshadowed  their  whole  lives. 
Not  in  what  Martin  would  do,  but  in  what  he  would 
not  do,  would  lie  her  heartaches.  Yet  in  her  sad 
reflections  there  was  no  bitterness  toward  him;  he 
had  disappointed  her,  but  perhaps  it  was  only  be 
cause  she  had  taught  herself  to  expect  something 
rare,  even  spiritual,  from  marriage.  Her  idealism 
had  played  her  a  trick. 

With  the  quiet  relinquishment  of  this  long- 
cherished  dream,  eagerness  for  the  realization  of  an 
even  more  precious  one  took  possession  of  her.  She 
comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that  maybe  life 
had  brought  Martin  merely  as  a  door  to  the  citadel 
which  looms,  sparkling  with  dancing  sunlight,  in 
the  midst  of  mysterious  shadows.  Motherhood  — 
she  would  feel  as  if  she  were  in  another  world.  Out 
of  all  this  disappointment  would  come  her  ultimate 
happiness. 

Always  struggling  toward  happiness,  she  was 
cheered  too  as  the  foundation  for  the  house  pro 
gressed.  Everything  would  be  so  different,  she  told 
herself,  once  they  were  in  their  pretty  new  home. 
It  was  true  she  had  given  up  a  concrete  floor  for 
her  cellar,  but  she  had  seen  at  once  the  good  sense  of 
having  the  concrete  in  the  barn  instead.  Martin 


66  DUST 

was  right.  While  it  would  have  been  nice  in  the 
house,  of  course,  it  would  not  have  begun  to  be  the 
constant  blessing  to  herself  that  it  would  now  be  to 
him.  How  much  easier  it  would  make  keeping  the 
barn  clean!  Why,  it  was  almost -a  duty  in  a  dairy 
barn  to  have  such  a  floor  and  really  she,  herself, 
could  manage  almost  as  well  with  the  dirt  bottom. 
But  when  Martin  began  to  discuss  eliminating  the 
whole  upper  story  of  the  house,  Rose  protested. 

"You  won't  use  it,"  he  had  returned  reasonably. 
"I'll  keep  my  word,  but  when  a  body  gets  to  figuring 
and  sees  all  that  can  be  built  with  that  same  money, 
it  seems  mighty  foolish  to  put  it  into  something  that 
you  don't  really  need." 

As  Martin  looked  at  her  questioningly,  Rose  felt 
suddenly  unable  to  muster  an  argument  for  the  ad 
ditional  sleeping-rooms.  It  was  true  that  they  were 
mot  actually  necessary  for  their  comfort;  but  the 
house  as  it  had  been  decided  upon  was  so  interwoven 
with  memories  of  her  courtship  and  all  that  was 
lovable  in  Martin ;  it  had  become  so  real  to  her,  that 
it  was  as  if  some  dear  possession  were  being  torn 
to  pieces  before  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  why,  Martin,"  she  had  answered, 
with  a  choky  little  laugh,  "but  it  seems  as  if  I  just 
can't  bear  to  give  it  up." 

"Why?" 


DUST  IN   HER   HEART  67 

"I  —  I  —  like  it  all  so  well  the  way  you  planned 
it." 

"Just  liking  a  thing  isn't  always  good  reason  for 
having  it.  It'll  make  lots  more  for  you  to  take  care 
of.  What  would  you  say  if  I  was  to  prove  to  you 
that  it  would  build  a  fine  chicken-house,  one  for  the 
herd  boar,  a  concrete  tank  down  in  the  pasture 
that'd  save  the  cows  enough  trips  to  the  barn  to 
make  'em  give  a  heap  sight  more  milk,  a  cooling 
house  for  it  and  a  good  tool  room?"  Rose's  eyes 
opened  wide.  "I  can  prove  it  to  you." 

That  was  all.  But  the  shack  filled  with  his  dis 
approval  of  her  reluctance  to  free  him  from  his 
promise.  She  remembered  one  time  when  she  had 
come  home  from  school  in  a  pelting  rain  that  had 
changed,  suddenly,  to  hail.  There  had  seemed  no 
escape  from  the  hard,  little  balls  and  their  cruel 
bruises.  Just  so,  it  seemed  to  her,  from  Martin, 
outwardly  so  calm  as  he  read  his  paper,  the  harsh, 
determined  thoughts  beat  thick  and  fast.  Turn 
what  way  she  would,  they  surrounded,  enveloped 
and  pounded  down  upon  her.  Her  resolution  weak 
ened.  Wasn't  she  paying  too  big  a  price  for  what 
was,  after  all,  only  material?  The  one  time  she  and 
Martin  had  seemed  quite  close  had  been  the  moment 
in  which  she  had  agreed  so  quickly  to  change  the 
location  of  the  concrete  floor.  Now  she  had  utterly 


68  DUST 

lost  him.  She  could  scarcely  endure  the  aloofness 
with  which  he  had  withdrawn  into  himself. 

"Martin,"  she  said  a  bit  huskily,  two  evenings 
later,  at  supper,  "I've  decided  that  you  are  right. 
It  is  foolish  and  extravagant  of  me  to  want  a  second 
story  when  there  are  just  the  two  of  us.  It  will  be 
better  to  have  all  those  other  things  you  told  me 
about," 

Martin  did  not  respond;  simply  continued  eating 
without  looking  up.  This  was  a  habit  of  his  that 
nearly  drove  Rose  desperate.  In  her  father's  house 
hold  meals  had  always  been  friendly,  sociable  affairs. 
Patrick  Conroy  had  been  loquacious  and  by  way  of 
a  wit;  sharpened  on  his,  Rose's  own  had  developed. 
They  had  dealt  in  delicious  nonsense,  these  two,  and 
had  her  husband  been  of  a  different  temperament 
She  might  have  found  it  a  refuge  in  her  life  with  him. 
But,  somehow,  from  the  first,  even  before  they  were 
married,  when  with  Martin,  such  chatter  had  died 
unuttered  on  Rose's  tongue.  The  few  remarks  which 
she  did  venture,  nowadays,  had  the  effect  of  a  dis 
concerting  splash  before  they  sank  into  the  gloomy 
depths  of  the  thick  silence.  Occasionally,  in  sheer 
self  defense,  she  carried  on  a  light  monologue,  but 
Martin's  lack  of  interest  gave  her  such  an  odd, 
lonely,  stage-struck  sensation  that  she,  too,  became 
untalkative,  keeping  to  herself  the  ideas  which 


DUST   IN   HER   HEART  69 

chased  through  her  ever-active  mind.  Innately  just, 
she  attributed  this  peculiarity  of  his  to  the  fact  that 
he  had  lived  so  long  alone,  and  while  it  fretted  her, 
she  usually  forgave  him.  But  tonight,  as  no  answer 
came,  it  seemed  to  her  that  if  Martin  did  not  at 
least  raise  his  eyes,  she  must  scream  or  throw  some 
thing. 

"It  would  be  a  godsend  to  be  the  sort  who  per 
mits  oneself  to  do  such  things,"  she  told  herself,  a 
suggestion  of  a  smile  touching  her  lips,  and  mentally 
she  sent  dish  after  dish  at  him,  watching  them  fall 
shattered  to  the  floor.  Dismay  at  the  relief  this 
gave  her  brought  the  dimples  into  her  cheeks.  Her 
voice  was  pleasant  as  she  asked:  "Martin,  did  you 
hear  your  spouse  just  now?" 

Annoyance  flitted  across  his  face  and  crept  into 
his  tone  as  he  answered  tersely :  "Of  course,  I  heard 
you."  Presently  he  finished  his  meal,  pushed  back 
his  chair  and  went  out. 

Nothing  further  was  said  between  them  on  the 
subject,  but  when  the  scaffolding  went  up  she  saw 
that  it  was  for  only  one  story.  It  might  have  com 
forted  her  a  little,  had  she  known  what  uneasy  mo 
ments  Martin  was  having.  In  spite  of  himself,  he 
could  not  shake  off  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
broken  his  word.  That  was  something  which,  here 
tofore,  he  had  never  done.  But,  heretofore,  his 


70  DUST 

promises  had  been  of  a  strictly  business  nature.  He 
would  deliver  so  many  bushels  of  wheat  at  such  and 
such  a  time;  he  would  lend  such  and  such  a  piece 
of  machinery;  he  would  supply  so  many  men  and 
so  many  teams  at  a  neighbor's  threshing;  he  would 
pay  so  much  per  pound  for  hogs ;  he  would  guarantee 
so  many  eggs  out  of  a  setting  or  so  many  pounds 
of  butter  in  so  many  months  from  a  cow  he  was 
selling.  A  few  such  guarantees  made  good  at  a  loss 
to  himself,  a  few  such  loads  delivered  in  adverse 
weather,  a  few  such  pledges  of  help  kept  when  he 
was  obliged  actually  to  hire  men,  had  established 
for  him  an  enviable  reputation,  which  Martin  was 
of  no  mind  to  lose.  Had  Rose  not  released  him  from 
his  promise  he  would  have  kept  it.  Even  now  he 
was  disturbed  as  to  what  Fletcher  and  Fallon  might 
think.  But  already  he  had  lived  long  enough  with 
his  wife  to  understand  something  of  the  quality  of 
her  pride.  Once  having  agreed  to  the  change,  she 
would  carry  it  off  with  a  dash. 

Had  Rose  stood  her  ground  on  this  matter,  un 
doubtedly  all  her  after  life  might  have  been  dif 
ferent,  but  she  was  of  those  women  whose  charm 
and  whose  folly  lie  in  their  sensitiveness  to  the 
moods  and  contentment  of  the  people  most  closely 
associated  with  them.  They  can  rise  above  their 
own  discomfort  or  depression,  but  they  are  utterly 


DUST  IN  HER  HEART  71 

unable  to  disregard  that  of  those  near  them.  This 
gave  Martin,  who  by  temperament  and  habit  con 
sidered  only  his  own  feelings,  an  incalculable  ad 
vantage.  His  was  the  old  supremacy  of  the  selfish 
over  the  self  sacrificing,  the  hard  over  the  tender, 
the  mental  over  the  emotional.  Add  to  this,  the 
fact  that  with  all  his  faults,  perhaps  largely  because 
of  them,  perhaps  chiefly  because  she  cooked,  washed, 
ironed,  mended,  and  baked  for  him,  kept  his  home 
and  planned  so  continually  for  his  pleasure,  Martin 
was  dear  to  Rose,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
how  unequal  the  contest  in  which  she  was  matched 
when  her  wishes  clashed  with  her  husband's.  It 
was  predestined  that  he,  invariably,  should  win  out. 
Rose  told  her  friends  she  and  her  husband  had  de 
cided  that  the  second  story  would  make  her  too 
much  work,  and  Martin  noticed  with  surprise  how 
easily  her  convincing  statement  was  accepted.  He 
decided,  for  his  own  peace  of  mind,  that  he  had 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  himself.  He  had 
put  it  up  to  her  and  she  had  agreed.  This  principal 
concession  obtained,  other  smaller  ones  followed 
logically  and  rapidly.  The  running  water  and  bath 
in  the  house  were  given  up  for  piping  to  the  barn, 
and  stanchions  —  then  novelties  in  southeastern 
Kansas.  The  money  for  the  hardwood  floors  went 
into  lightning  rods.  Built-in  cupboards  were  dis- 


72  BUST 

missed  as  luxuries,  and  the  saving  paid  for  an  im 
plement  shed  which  delighted  Martin,  who  had  fig 
ured  how  much  expensive  machinery  would  be  saved 
from  rust.  When  it  came  to  papering  the  walls  he 
decided  that  the  white  plaster  was  attractive  enough 
and  could  serve  for  years.  Instead,  he  bought  a 
patented  litter-carrier  that  made  the  job  of  removing 
manure  from  the  barn  an  easy  task.  The  porches 
purchased  everything  from  a  brace  and  bit  to  a  lathe 
for  the  new  tool-room  and  put  the  finishing  touches 
to  the  dairy.  The  result  was  a  four-room  house  that 
was  the  old  one  born  again,  and  such  well-equipped 
farm  buildings  that  they  were  the  pride  of  the  town 
ship. 

Rose,  who  had  surrendered  long  since,  let  the 
promises  go  to  naught  without  much  protest.  Mar 
tin  was  so  quietly  domineering,  so  stubbornly 
persistent  —  and  always  so  plausible  —  oh,  so  plaus 
ible!  —  that  there  was  no  resisting  him.  Only  when 
it  came  to  the  fireplace  did  she  make  a  last  stand. 
She  felt  that  it  would  be  such  a  friendly  spirit  in 
the  house.  She  pictured  Martin  and  herself  sitting 
beside  it  in  the  winter  evenings. 

"A  house  without  one  is  like  a  place  without 
flowers,"  she  explained  to  him. 

"It's  a  mighty  dirty  business/'  he  answered 
tersely.  "You  would  have  to  track  the  coal  through 


DUST  IN   HER  HEART  73 

the  rest  of  the  house  and  you'd  have  all  those  extra 
ashes  to  clean  out." 

"But  you  would  never  see  any  of  the  dirt/'  she 
argued  with  more  than  her  usual  courage,  "and  if 
I  wouldn't  mind  the  ashes  I  don't  see  why  you 
should." 

"We  can't  afford  it." 

"Martin,  I've  given  in  to  you  on  everything  else," 
she  asserted  firmly.  "I'm  not  going  to  give  this  up. 
I'll  pay  for  it  out  of  my  own  money." 

"What  do  you  mean  'out  of  my  own  money'?"  he 
asked  sternly.  "I  told  Osborne  we'd  run  one  ac 
count.  If  what  is  mine  is  going  to  be  yours,  what 
is  yours  is  going  to  be  mine.  I'd  think  your  own 
sense  of  fairness  would  tell  you  that." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Martin  had  no  intention  of 
ever  touching  Rose's  little  capital,  but  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  direct  the  spending  of  its  income. 
He  would  keep  her  from  putting  it  into  just  such 
foolishnesses  as  this  fireplace.  But  Rose,  listening, 
saw  the  last  of  her  independence  going.  She  felt 
tricked,  outraged.  During  the  years  she  had  been 
at  the  head  of  her  father's  household,  she  had  regu 
lated  the  family  budget  and,  no  matter  how  small 
it  had  happened  to  be,  she  always  had  contrived  to 
have  a  surplus.  This  notion  of  Martin's  that  he, 
and  he  alone,  should  decide  upon  expenditures  was 


74  DUST 

ridiculous.  She  told  him  so  and  in  spite  of  himself, 
he  was  impressed. 

"All  right,"  he  said  calmly.  "You  can  do  all  the 
buying  for  the  house.  Write  a  check  with  my  name 
and  sign  your  own  initials.  Get  what  you  think  we 
need.  But  there  isn't  going  to  be  any  fireplace. 
You  can  just  set  that  down." 

Voice,  eyes,  the  line  of  his  chin,  all  told  Rose  that 
he  would  not  yield.  Nothing  could  be  gained  from 
a  quarrel  except  deeper  ill  feeling.  With  a  supreme 
effort  of  will  she  obeyed  the  dictates  of  common 
sense  and  ended  the  argument  abruptly. 

But,  for  months  after  she  was  settled  in  the  new 
little  house,  her  eye  never  fell  on  the  space  where 
the  fireplace  should  have  been  without  a  bitter  feel 
ing  of  revolt  sweeping  over  her.  She  never  carried 
a  heavy  bucket  in  from  the  pump  without  thinking 
cynically  of  Martin's  promises  of  running  water. 
As  she  swept  the  dust  out  of  her  front  and  back 
doors  to  narrow  steps,  she  remembered  the  spa 
cious  porches  that  were  to  have  been;  and  as  she 
wiped  the  floors  she  had  painted  herself,  and  pol 
ished  her  pine  furniture,  she  was  taunted  by  mem 
ories  of  the  smooth  boards  and  the  golden  oak  to 
which  she  had  once  looked  forward  so  happily.  This 
resentment  was  seldom  expressed,  but  its  flame 
scorched  her  soul. 


DUST  IN  HER  HEART  75 

Her  work  increased  steadily.  She  did  not  object 
to  this;  it  kept  her  from  thinking  and  brooding;  it 
helped  her  to  forget  all  that  might  have  been,  all 
that  was.  She  milked  half  the  cows,  separated  the 
cream,  took  charge  of  the  dairy  house  and  washed 
all  the  cans.  Three  times  a  week  she  churned,  and 
her  butter  became  locally  famous.  She  took  over 
completely  both  the  chickens  and  the  garden.  Often, 
because  her  feet  ached  from  being  on  them  such 
long  hours,  she  worked  barefoot  in  the  soft  dirt. 
According  to  the  season,  she  canned  vegetables,  pre 
served  fruit,  rendered  lard  and  put  down  pork. 
When  she  sat  at  meals  now,  like  Martin  she  was  too 
tired  for  conversation.  From  the  time  she  arose  in 
the  morning  until  she  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  night, 
her  thoughts,  like  his,  were  chiefly  of  immediate 
duties  to  be  performed.  One  concept  dominated 
their  household  —  work.  It  seemed  to  offer  the  only 
way  out  of  life's  perplexities. 


IV 
A  KOSE-BUD   IN  THE   DUST 


IV 
A  ROSE-BUD  IN  THE  DUST 

UNDER  this  rigid  regime  Martin's  prosperity 
increased.  Although  he  would  not  have  ad 
mitted  it,  Rose's  good  cooking  and  the 
sweet,  fresh  cleanliness  with  which  he  was  sur 
rounded  had  their  effect,  giving  him  a  new  sense  of 
physical  well-being,  making  his  mind  more  alert. 
Always,  he  had  been  a  hard  worker,  but  now  he 
began  for  the  first  time  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
scientific  aspects  of  farming.  He  subscribed  for  farm 
journals  and  put  real  thought  into  all  he  did,  with 
results  that  were  gratifying.  He  grew  the  finest 
crop  of  wheat  for  miles  around ;  in  the  season  which 
brought  others  a  yield  of  fifteen  or  twenty  bushels 
to  the  acre,  Martin  averaged  thirty-three,  without 
buying  a  ton  of  commercial  fertilizer.  His  corn  was 
higher  than  anybody's  else;  the  ears  longer,  the 
stalks  juicier,  because  of  his  careful,  intelligent  culti 
vating.  In  the  driest  season,  it  resisted  the  hot 
winds ;  this,  he  explained,  was  the  result  of  his  know 
ing  how  to  prepare  his  seed  bed  and  when  to  plant 

79 


80  DUST 

—  moisture  could  be  retained  if  the  soil  was  handled 
scientifically.  He  bought  the  spoiled  acreage  of  his 
neighbors,  which  he  cut  up  for  the  silo  —  as  yet  the 
only  one  in  the  county  —  adding  water  to  help  fer 
mentation.  His  imported  hogs  seemed  to  justify 
the  prices  he  paid  for  them,  growing  faster  and 
rounder  and  fatter  than  any  in  the  surrounding 
county.  The  chinch  bugs  might  bother  everyone 
else,  but  Martin  seemed  to  be  able  to  guard  against 
them  with  fair  success.  He  took  correspondence 
courses  in  soils  and  fertilizers,  animal  husbandry  and 
every  related  subject;  kept  a  steady  stream  of  letters 
flowing  to  and  from  both  Washington  and  the  State 
Agricultural  College. 

Now  and  then  it  crossed  his  mind  that  with  the 
farm  developing  into  such  an  institution  it  would 
be  more  than  desirable  to  pass  it  on  to  one  of  his 
own  blood,  and  secretly  he  was  pleased  when  Rose 
told  him  a  baby  was  coming.  A  child,  a  son,  might 
bring  with  him  a  little  of  what  was  missing  in  his 
marriage  with  her.  She  irritated  him  more  and 
more,  not  by  what  she  did  but  by  what  she  was. 
Her  whole  temperament,  in  so  much  as  he  permitted 
himself  to  be  aware  of  it,  her  whole  nature,  jarred 
on  his. 

"When  is  it  due?" 

"October." 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN   THE   DUST  81 

"It's  lucky  harvest  will  be  over;  silo  filling,  too/' 
was  his  only  comment. 

In  spite  of  Rose's  three  long  years  with  Martin 
his  lack  of  enthusiasm  was  like  a  sharp  stab.  What 
had  she  expected,  she  asked  herself  sternly.  To  be 
taken  in  his  arms  and  rejoiced  over  as  others  were 
at  such  a  moment?  What  did  he  care  so  long  as  he 
wouldn't  have  to  hire  extra  help  for  her  in  the  busy 
season!  It  was  incredible  —  his  hardness. 

Why  couldn't  she  hate  him?  He  was  mean 
enough  to  her,  surely.  "I'm  as  foolish  as  old  Rover," 
she  thought  bitterly.  The  faithful  dog  lived  for  his 
master  and  yet  Rose  could  not  remember  ever  hav 
ing  seen  Martin  give  him  a  pat.  "When  I  once  hold 
my  own  little  baby  in  my  arms,  I  won't  care  like 
this.  I'll  have  someone  else  to  fill  my  heart/'  she 
consoled  herself,  thrilling  anew  with  the  conviction 
that  then  she  would  be  more  than  recompensed  for 
everything.  The  love  she  had  missed,  the  house 
that  had  been  stolen  from  her  —  what  were  they  in 
comparison  to  this  growing  bit  of  life?  Meanwhile, 
she  longed  as  never  before  to  feel  near  to  Martin. 
She  could  not  help  recalling  how  gallantly  her  father 
had  watched  over  her  mother  when  she  carried  her 
last  child  and  how  eagerly  they  all  had  waited  upon 
her.  At  times,  the  contrast  was  scarcely  to  be  borne. 

Rose  was  troubled  with  nausea,  but  Martin  pooh- 


82  DUST 

poohed,  as  childish,  the  notion  of  dropping  some  of 
her  responsibilities.  Didn't  his  mares  work  almost 
to  the  day  of  foaling?  It  was  good  for  them,  keep 
ing  them  in  shape.  And  the  cows  —  didn't  they  go 
about  placidly  until  within  a  few  hours  of  bringing 
their  calves?  Even  the  sows  —  did  they  droop  as 
they  neared  farrowing?  Why  should  a  woman  be 
so  different?  Her  child  would  be  healthier  and  she 
able  to  bring  it  into  the  world  with  less  discomfort 
to  herself  if  she  went  about  her  ordinary  duties  in 
her  usual  way.  Thus  Martin,  impersonally,  logi 
cally. 

"That  would  be  true,"  Rose  agreed,  "if  the  work 
weren't  so  heavy  and  if  I  were  younger." 

"It's  the  work  you're  used  to  doing  all  the  time, 
isn't  it?  Because  you  aren't  young  is  all  the  more 
reason  you  need  the  exercise.  You're  not  going  to 
hire  extra  help,  so  you  might  just  as  well  get  any 
to-do  out  of  your  mind,"  he  retorted,  the  dreaded 
note  in  his  voice. 

She  considered  leaving  him.  If  she  had  earned 
her  living  before,  she  could  again.  More  than  once 
she  had  thought  of  doing  this,  but  always  the  hope 
of  a  child  had  shone  like  a  tiny  bright  star  through 
the  midnight  of  her  trials.  Since  she  had  endured  so 
much,  why  not  endure  a  little  longer  and  reap  a 
dear  reward?  Then,  too,  she  could  never  quite  bring 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN   THE   DUST  83 

herself  to  face  the  pictures  her  imagination  conjured 
of  Martin,  struggling  along  uncared  for.  Now,  as 
her  heart  hardened  against  him,  an  inner  voice  whis 
pered  that  everyone  had  a  right  to  a  father  as  well 
as  a  mother,  and  Martin  might  be  greatly  softened 
by  daily  contact  with  a  little  son  or  daughter.  In 
fairness,  she  must  wait. 

Yet,  she  knew  these  were  not  her  real  reasons. 
They  lay  far  deeper,  in  the  very  warp  and  woof  of 
her  nature.  She  did  not  leave  Martin  because  she 
could  not.  She  was  incapable  of  making  drastic 
changes,  of  tearing  herself  from  anyone  to  whom 
she  was  tied  by  habit  and  affection  —  no  matter  how 
bitterly  the  mood  of  the  moment  might  demand  it. 
Always  she  would  be  bound  by  circumstances.  True, 
however  hard  and  adverse  they  might  prove,  she 
could  adapt  herself  to  them  with  rare  patience  and 
dignity,  but  never  would  she  be  able  to  compel  them 
to  her  will,  rise  superbly  above  them,  toss  them 
aside.  Her  life  had  been,  and  would  be,  shaped 
largely  by  others.  Her  mother's  death,  the  par 
ticular  enterprise  in  which  her  father's  little  capital 
had  been  invested,  Martin's  peculiar  temperament 
—  these  had  moulded  and  were  moulding  Rose 
Wade.  At  the  time  she  came  to  Martin's  shack, 
she  was  potentially  any  one  of  a  half  dozen  women. 
It  was  inevitable  that  the  particular  one  into  which 


84  DUST 

she  would  evolve  should  be  determined  by  the  type 
of  man  she  might  happen  to  marry,  inevitable  that 
she  would  become,  to  a  large  degree,  what  he  wished 
and  expected,  that  her  thoughts  would  take  on  the 
complexion  of  his.  Lacking  in  strength  of  character? 
In  power  of  resistance,  certainly.  Time  out  of  mind, 
such  malleability  has  been  the  cross  of  the  Mag- 
dalenes.  Yet  in  what  else  lies  the  secret  of  the 
harmony  achieved  by  successful  wives? 

And  as,  her  nausea  passing,  Rose  began  to  feel 
a  glorious  sensation  of  vigor,  she  decided  that  per 
haps,  after  all,  Martin  had  been  right.  Child-bear 
ing  was  a  natural  function.  People  probably  made 
far  too  much  fuss  about  it.  Nellie  came  to  help  her 
cook  for  the  threshers  and,  for  the  rest,  she  man 
aged  very  well,  even  milking  her  usual  eight  cows 
and  carrying  her  share  of  the  foaming  buckets. 

All  might  have  gone  smoothly  if  only  she  had  not 
overslept  one  morning  in  late  September.  When 
she  reached  the  barn,  Martin  was  irritable.  She  did 
not  answer  him  but  sat  down  quietly  by  her  first 
cow,  a  fine-blooded  animal  which  soon  showed  signs 
of  restlessness  under  her  tense  hands. 

"There !    There !    So  Bossy,"  soothed  Rose  gently. 

"You  never  will  learn  how  to  manage  good  stock," 
Martin  criticized  bitingly. 

"Nor  you  how  to  treat  a  wife." 


A  ROSE-BUD   IN   THE   DUST  85 

"Oh,  shut  up." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  that  way." 

As  she  started  to  rise,  a  kick  from  the  cow  caught 
her  square  on  the  stomach  with  such  force  that  it 
sent  her  staggering  backward,  still  clutching  the 
handle  of  the  pail  from  which  a  snowy  stream  cas 
caded. 

"Now  what  have  you  done?"  demanded  Martin 
sternly.  "Haven't  I  warned  you  time  and  again  that 
milk  cows  are  sensitive,  nervous?  Fidgety  people 
drive  them  crazy.  Why  can't  you  behave  simply 
and  directly  with  them!  Why  is  it  I  always  get 
more  milk  from  mine!  It's  your  own  fault  this 
happened  —  fussing  around,  taking  out  your  ill 
temper  at  me  on  her.  Shouting  at  me.  What  could 
you  expect?" 

For  the  first  time  in  their  life  together,  Rose  was 
frankly  unnerved.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
go  mad.  "You  devil!  "she  burst  out,  wildly.  "That's 
what  you  are,  Martin  Wade!  You're  not  human. 
Your  child  may  be  lost  and  you  talk  about  cows 
letting  down  more  milk.  Oh  God!  I  didn't  know 
there  was  any  one  living  who  could  be  so  cruel,  so 
cold,  so  diabolical.  You'll  be  punished  for  this  some 
day  —  you  will  —  you  will.  You  don't  love  me  — 
never  did,  oh,  don't  I  know  it.  But  some  time  you 
will  love  some  one.  Then  you'll  understand  what 


80  DUST 

it  is  to  be  treated  like  this  when  your  whole  soul  is 
in  need  of  tenderness.  You'll  see  then  what  — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  growled  Martin,  somewhat  abashed 
by  the  violence  of  her  broken  words  and  gasping 
sobs.  "You're  hysterical.  You're  doing  yourself  as 
much  harm  right  now  as  that  kick  did  you." 

"Oh,  Martin,  please  be  kind,"  pleaded  Rose  more 
quietly.  "Please !  It's  your  baby  as  much  as  mine. 
Be  just  half  as  kind  as  you  are  to  these  cows." 

"They  have  more  sense,"  he  retorted  angrily.  And 
when  Rose  woke  him,  the  following  night,  to  go  for 
the  doctor,  his  quick  exclamation  was:  "So  now 
you've  done  it,  have  you?" 

As  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  died  away,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  he  had  taken  the  very  heart  out 
of  her  courage.  She  thought  with  anguished  envy 
of  the  women  whose  husbands  loved  them,  for  whom 
the  heights  and  depths  of  this  ordeal  were  as  real  as 
for  their  wives.  It  seemed  to  her  that  even  the 
severest  of  pain  could  be  wholly  bearable  if,  in  the 
midst  of  it,  one  felt  cherished.  Well,  she  would  go 
through  it  alone  as  she  had  gone  through  everything 
else  since  their  marriage.  She  would  try  to  forget 
Martin.  She  would  forget  him.  She  must.  She 
would  keep  her  mind  fixed  on  the  deep  joy  so  soon 
to  be  hers.  Had  she  not  chosen  to  suffer  of  her  own 
free  will,  because  the  little  creature  that  could  be 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  87 

won  only  through  it  was  worth  so  much  more  than 
anything  else  the  world  had  to  offer?  She  imagined 
the  baby  already  arrived  and  visualized  him  as  she 
hoped  her  child  might  be  at  two  years.  Suppose  he 
were  in  a  burning  house,  would  she  have  the  courage 
to  rescue  him?  What  would  be  the  limit  of  her  en 
durance  in  the  flames?  She  laughed  to  herself  at 
the  absurdity  of  the  question.  How  well  she  knew 
its  answer!  She  wished  with  passionate  intensity 
that  she  could  look  into  the  magic  depths  of  some 
fairy  mirror  and  see,  for  just  the  flash  of  one  instant, 
exactly  how  her  boy  or  girl  really  would  look.  How 
much  easier  that  would  make  it  to  hold  fast  to  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  not  merely  in  pain,  but 
was  laboring  to  bring  forth  a  warm  flesh -and-blood 
child.  There  was  the  rub  —  in  spite  of  her  eager 
ness,  the  little  one,  so  priceless,  wasn't  as  yet  quite 
definite,  real.  She  recalled  the  rosy-cheeked,  curly- 
haired  youngster  her  fancy  had  created  a  moment 
ago.  She  would  cling  to  that  picture;  yes,  even  if 
her  pain  mounted  to  agony,  it  should  be  of  the  body 
only;  she  would  not  let  it  get  into  her  mind,  not 
into  her  soul,  not  into  the  welcoming  mother-heart 
of  her. 

Meanwhile,  as  she  armored  her  spirit,  she  built  a 
fire,  put  on  water  to  heat,  attended  capably  to  in 
numerable  details.  Rose  was  a  woman  of  sound 


88  DUST 

experience.  She  had  been  with  others  at  such  times. 
It  held  no  goblin  terrors  for  her.  Had  it  not  been 
for  Martin's  heartlessness,  she  would  have  felt 
wholly  equal  to  the  occasion.  As  it  was,  she  made 
little  commotion.  Dr.  Bradley,  gentle  and  direct, 
had  been  the  Conroys'  family  physician  for  years. 
Nellie,  who  arrived  in  an  hour,  had  been  through 
the  experience  often  herself,  and  was  friendly  and 
helpful. 

She  liked  Rose,  admired  her  tremendously  and 
the  thought  —  an  odd  one  for  Nellie  —  crossed  her 
mind  that  tonight  she  was  downright  beautiful. 
When  at  dawn,  Dr.  Bradley  whispered:  "She  has 
been  so  brave,  Mrs.  Mall,  I  can't  bear  to  tell  her 
the  child  is  not  alive.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you 
to  do  so?"  She  shrank  from  the  task.  "I  can't;  I 
simply  can't,"  she  protested,  honest  tears  pouring 
down  her  thin  face. 

"Could  you,  Mr.  Wade?" 

Martin  strode  into  Rose's  room,  all  his  own  dis 
appointment  adding  bitterness  to  his  words:  "Well, 
I  knew  you'd  done  it  and  you  have.  It's  a  fine  boy, 
but  he  came  dead." 

Out  of  the  dreariness  and  the  toil,  out  of  the  hope, 
the  suffering  and  the  high  courage  had  come  — 
nothing.  As  Rose  lay,  the  little  still  form  clasped 
against  her,  she  was  too  broken  for  tears.  Life  had 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  89 

played  her  another  trick.    Indignation  toward  Mar 
tin  gathered  volume  with  her  returning  strength. 

"You  don't  deserve  a  child,"  she  told  him  bitterly. 
"You  might  treat  him  when  he  grew  up  as  you  treat 


me." 


"I've  never  laid  hand  to  you/'  said  Martin  gruffly, 
certain  stinging  words  of  Nellie's  still  smarting. 
When  she  chose,  his  sister's  tongue  could  be  waspish. 
She  had  tormented  him  with  it  all  the  way  to  her 
home.  He  had  been  goaded  into  flaring  back  and 
both  had  been  thoroughly  angry  when  they  sepa 
rated,  yet  he  was  conscious  that  he  came  nearer  a 
feeling  of  affection  for  her  than  for  any  living  per 
son.  Well,  not  affection,  precisely,  he  corrected.  It 
was  rather  that  he  relished,  with  a  quizzical  amuse 
ment,  the  completeness  of  their  mutual  comprehen 
sion.  She  was  growing  to  be  more  like  their  mother, 
too.  Decidedly,  this  was  the  type  of  woman  he 
should  have  married,  not  someone  soft  and  eager  and 
full  of  silly  sentiment  like  Rose.  Why  didn't  she 
hold  her  own  as  Nellie  did?  Have  more  snap  and 
stamina?  It  was  exasperating  —  the  way  she  fre 
quently  made  him  feel  as  if  he  actually  were  tramp 
ling  on  something  defenseless. 

He  now  frankly  hated  her.  There  was  not  dislike 
merely;  there  was  acute  antipathy.  He  took  a  de 
light  in  having  her  work  harder  and  harder.  It  used 


90  DUST 

to  be  "Rose,"  but  now  it  was  always  "say"  or  "you" 
or  "hey."  Once  she  asked  cynically  if  he  had  ever 
heard  of  a  "Rose  of  Sharon"  to  which  he  maliciously 
replied:  "She  turned  out  to  be  a  Rag-weed." 

Yet  such  a  leveller  of  emotions  and  an  adjuster 
of  disparate  dispositions  is  Time  that  when  they 
rounded  their  fourth  year,  Martin  viewed  his  life, 
with  a  few  reservations,  as  fairly  satisfactory.  He 
turned  the  matter  over  judicially  in  his  mind  and 
concluded  that  even  though  he  cared  not  a  jot  for 
Rose,  at  least  he  could  think  of  no  other  woman  who 
could  carry  a  larger  share  of  the  drudgery  in  their 
dusty  lives,  help  save  more  and,  on  the  whole,  bother 
him  less.  He,  like  his  rag-weed,  had  settled  down 
to  an  apathetic  jog. 

Rose  was  convinced  that  Martin  would  make  too 
unkind  a  father;  he  had  no  wish  for  another  taste 
of  the  general  confusion  and  disorganized  routine 
her  confinement  had  entailed.  Besides,  it  would 
be  inconvenient  if  she  were  to  die,  as  Dr.  Bradley 
quite  solemnly  had  warned  him  she  might  only  too 
probably.  Without  any  exchange  of  words,  it  was 
settled  there  should  not  be  another  child  —  settled, 
he  dismissed  it.  In  a  way,  he  had  come  to  appreci 
ate  Rose,  but  it  was  absurd  to  compliment  anyone, 
let  alone  a  wife  whom  he  saw  constantly.  Physi 
cally,  she  did  not  interest  him;  in  fact,  the  whole 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN   THE    DUST  91 

business  bored  him.  It  was  tiresome  and  got  one 
nowhere.  He  decided  this  state  of  mind  must  be 
rather  general  among  married  people,  and  reasoned 
his  way  to  the  conclusion  that  marriage  was  a  good 
thing  in  that  it  drove  out  passion  and  placed  human 
animals  on  a  more  practicable  foundation.  If  there 
had  been  the  likelihood  of  children,  he  undoubtedly 
would  have  sought  her  from  time  to  time,  but  with 
that  hope  out  of  their  lives  the  attraction  died  com 
pletely. 

When  he  was  through  with  his  work,  it  was  late 
and  he  was  sleepy.  When  he  woke  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  he  had  to  hurry  to  his  stock.  So  that  which 
always  had  been  less  than  secondary,  now  became 
completely  quiescent,  and  he  was  satisfied  that  it 
should.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  consider  what 
Rose  might  be  thinking  and  feeling.  She  wondered 
about  it,  and  would  have  liked  to  ask  advice  from 
someone  —  the  older  Mrs.  Mall  or  Dr.  Bradley  — 
but  habitual  reserve  held  her  back.  After  all,  she 
decided  finally,  what  did  it  matter?  Meanwhile, 
financially,  things  were  going  better  than  ever. 

Martin  had  the  most  improved  farm  in  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  he  was  looked  up  to  by  everyone  as  one  of 
the  most  intelligent  men  in  the  county,  and  his 
earnings  were  swelling,  going  into  better  stock  and  the 
surplus  into  mortgages  which  he  accumulated  with 


92  DUST 

surprising  rapidity.  Occasionally,  he  would  wonder 
why  he  was  working  so  hard,  saving  so  assiduously 
and  investing  so  consistently.  His  growing  fortune 
seemed  to  mean  little  now  that  his  affluence  was 
thoroughly  established.  For  whom  was  he  working? 
he  would  ask  himself.  For  the  life  of  him,  he  could 
not  answer.  Surely  not  for  his  Rag-weed  of  Sharon. 
Nellie?  She  was  well  enough  fixed  and  he  didn't 
care  a  shot  for  her  husband.  Then  why?  Some 
times  he  pursued  this  chain  of  thought  further,  "I'll 
die  and  probably  leave  five  times  as  much  as  I  have 
now  to  her  and  who  knows  what  she'll  do  with  it? 
I'll  never  enjoy  any  of  it  myself.  I'm  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  expect  it.  What  difference  can  a  few 
thousand  dollars  more  or  less  make  to  me  from  now 
on?  Then  why  do  I  scheme  and  slave?  Pshaw! 
I've  known  the  answer  ever  since  I  first  turned  the 
soil  of  this  farm.  The  man  who  thinks  about  things 
knows  there's  nothing  to  life.  It's  all  a  grinding 
chase  for  the  day  when  someone  will  pat  my  cheek 
with  a  spade." 

He  might  have  escaped  this  materialism  through 
the  church,  but  to  him  it  offered  no  inducements. 
He  could  find  nothing  spiritual  in  it.  In  his  opinion, 
it  was  a  very  carnal  institution  conducted  by  very 
hypocritical  men  and  women.  He  smiled  at  their 
Hell  and  despised  their  Heaven.  Their  religion,  to 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN   THE    DUST  93 

him,  seemed  such  a  crudely  selfish  affair.  They  were 
always  expecting  something  from  God ;  always  pray 
ing  for  petty  favors  —  begging  and  whining  for 
money,  or  good  crops,  or  better  health.  Martin 
would  have  none  of  this  nonsense.  He  was  as  self 
ish  as  they,  probably  more  so,  he  conceded,  but  he 
hoped  he  would  never  reach  the  point  of  currying 
favor  with  anyone,  even  God.  With  his  own  good 
strength  he  would  answer  his  own  prayers.  This 
farm  was  the  nearest  he  would  ever  come  to  a  para 
dise  and  on  it  he  would  be  his  own  God.  Rose  did 
not  share  these  feelings.  She  went  to  church  each 
Sunday  and  read  her  Bible  daily  with  a  simple  faith 
that  defied  derision.  Once,  when  she  was  gone,  Mar 
tin  idly  hunted  out  the  Song  of  Solomon.  His  lips 
curled  with  contempt  at  the  passionate  rhapsody. 
He  knew  a  thing  or  two,  he  allowed,  about  these 
wonderful  Roses  of  Sharon  and  this  Song  of  Songs. 
Lies,  all  lies,  every  word  of  it!  Yet,  in  spite  of  him 
self,  from  time  to  time,  he  liked  to  reread  it.  He 
fancied  this  was  because  of  the  sardonic  pleasure  its 
superlative  phrases  gave  him,  but  the  truth  was  it 
held  him.  He  despised  sentiment,  tenderness,  and, 
by  the  strangeness  of  the  human  mind,  he  went, 
by  way  of  paradox,  to  the  tenderest,  most  sub 
lime  spot  in  a  book  supreme  in  tenderness  and 
sublimity. 


94  DUST 

At  forty,  he  owned  and,  with  the  aid  of  two  hired 
hands,  worked  an  entire  section  of  land.  The  law 
said  it  was  his  and  he  had  the  might  to  back  up  the 
law.  On  these  six  hundred  and  forty  broad  acres 
he  could  have  lived  without  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Here  he  was  King.  Other  farms  he  regarded  as 
foreign  countries,  their  owners  with  impersonal  sus 
picion.  Yet  he  trusted  them  after  a  fashion,  be 
cause  he  had  learned  from  many  and  devious  deal 
ings  with  a  large  assortment  of  people  that  the 
average  human  being  is  honest,  which  is  to  say  that 
he  does  not  steal  his  neighbor's  stock  nor  fail  to 
pay  his  just  debts  if  given  plenty  of  time  and  the 
conditions  have  the  explicitness  of  black  and  white. 
He  knew  them  to  be  as  mercenary  as  himself,  with 
this  only  difference:  Where  he  was  frankly  so,  they 
pretended  otherwise.  They  bothered  him  with  their 
dinky  deals,  with  their  scrimping  and  scratching, 
and  their  sneaky  attempts  to  hide  their  ugliness  by 
the  observance  of  one  set  day  of  sanctuary.  Because 
they  seemed  to  him  so  two-faced,  so  trifling,  so 
cowardly,  he  liked  to  "stick"  them  every  time  he 
had  a  fair  chance  and  could  do  it  within  the  law. 
It  was  his  favorite  game.  They  worked  so  blindly 
and  went  on  so  stupidly,  talking  so  foolishly,  that 
it  afforded  him  sport  to  come  along  and  take  the 
bacon  away  from  them. 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  95 

All  held  him  a  little  in  awe,  for  he  was  of  a  for 
bidding  bearing,  tall,  grave  and  thoughtful;  accurate 
in  his  facts  and  sure  of  himself;  slow  to  express  an 
opinion,  but  positive  in  his  conclusions;  seeking  no 
favors,  and  giving  none ;  careful  not  to  offend,  indif 
ferent  whether  he  pleased.  He  would  deceive,  but 
never  insult.  The  women  were  afraid  of  him,  be 
cause  he  never  "jollied."  He  had  no  jokes  or  bright 
remarks  for  them.  They  were  such  useless  creatures 
out  of  their  particular  duties.  There  was  nothing  to 
take  up  with  them.  Everyone  rendered  him  much 
the  same  respectful  manner  that  they  kept  on  tap 
for  the  leading  citizens  of  the  town,  David  Robinson, 
for  instance.  Indeed,  Martin  himself  was  somewhat 
of  a  banker,  for  he  was  a  stockholder  and  director  of 
the  First  State  Bank,  where  he  was  looked  up  to  as 
a  shrewd  man  who  was  too  big  even  for  the  opera 
tion  of  his  magnificent  farm.  He  understood  values. 
When  it  came  to  loans,  his  judgment  on  land  and 
livestock  was  never  disputed.  If  he  wanted  to  make 
a  purchase  he  did  not  go  to  several  stores  for  prices. 
He  knew,  in  the  first  place,  what  he  should  pay,  and 
the  business  men,  especially  the  hardware  and  im 
plement  dealers,  were  afraid  of  his  knowledge,  and 
still  more  of  his  influence. 

About  Rose,  too,  there  was  a  poise,  an  atmosphere 
of  background  which  inspired  respect  above  her 


96  DUST 

station.  When  Mrs.  Wade  said  anything,  her  state 
ment  was  apt  to  settle  the  matter,  for  on  those  sub 
jects  which  she  discussed  at  all,  she  was  an  authority, 
and  on  those  which  she  was  not,  her  training  in 
Martin's  household  had  taught  her  to  maintain  a 
wise  silence.  The  stern  self-control  had  stolen  some 
thing  of  the  tenderness  from  her  lips.  There  were 
other  changes.  The  sunlight  had  faded  from  her 
hair;  the  once  firm  white  neck  was  beginning  to  lose 
its  resilience.  Deep  lines  furrowed  her  cheeks  from 
mouth  to  jaw,  and  fine  wrinkles  had  slipped  into 
her  forehead.  There  were  delicate  webs  of  them 
about  her  patient  eyes,  under  which  lack  of  sleep 
and  overwork  had  left  their  brown  shadows.  Since 
the  birth  of  her  baby  she  had  become  much  heavier 
and  though  she  was  still  neat,  her  dresses  were  al 
ways  of  dark  colors  and  made  up  by  herself  of  cheap 
materials.  For,  while  she  bought  without  consult 
ing  Martin,  her  privilege  of  discretion  was  confined 
within  strict  and  narrow  limits.  He  kept  a  meticu 
lous  eye  on  all  her  cancelled  checks  and  knew  to  a 
penny  what  she  spent.  If  he  felt  a  respect  for  her 
thrift  it  was  completely  unacknowledged.  They 
worked  together  with  as  little  liking,  as  little  hatred, 
as  two  oxen  pulling  a  plow. 

It  had  been  a  wise  day  for  both,  thought  Fallen, 
when  they  had  decided  to  marry  —  they  were  so  well 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  97 

mated.  What  a  model  and  enviable  couple  they 
were!  To  Rose  it  seemed  the  essence  of  irony  that 
her  life  with  Martin  should  be  looked  upon  as  a 
flower  of  matrimony.  Yet,  womanlike,  she  took  an 
unconfessed  comfort  in  the  fact  that  this  was  so  — 
that  no  one,  unless  it  were  Nellie,  was  sufficiently 
astute  to  fathom  the  truth.  To  be  sure,  the  Wades 
were  never  spoken  of  as  "happy."  They  were  in 
variably  alluded  to  as  "good  folks/'  "true  blue," 
"solid  people,"  "ideal  husband  and  wife,"  or  "salt 
of  the  earth." 

Each  year  they  gave  a  round  sum  to  the  church, 
and  Martin  took  caustic  gratification  in  the  fact 
that,  although  his  attitude  toward  it  and  religion 
was  well  known,  he  too  was  counted  as  one  of  the 
fold.  To  do  its  leaders  justice,  he  admitted  that 
this  might  have  been  partly  through  their  hesitancy 
to  hurt  Rose  who  was  always  to  be  found  in  the 
thick  of  its  sale-dinners,  bazaars  and  sociables.  How 
she  was  able  to  accomplish  so  much  without  neg 
lecting  her  own  heavy  duties,  which  now  included 
cooking,  washing,  mending  and  keeping  in  order  the 
old  shack  for  the  hired  men,  was  a  topic  upon  which 
other  women  feasted  with  appreciative  gusto,  es 
pecially  at  missionary  meetings  when  she  was  not 
present.  It  really  was  extraordinary  how  much  she 
managed  to  put  into  a  day.  Early  as  Martin  was  up 


98  DUST 

to  feed  his  stock,  she  was  up  still  earlier  that  she 
might  lend  a  hand  to  a  neighbor,  harrowed  by  the 
fear  that  gathered  fruit  might  perish.  Late  as  he 
plowed,  in  the  hot  summer  evenings,  her  sweaty 
fingers  were  busy  still  later  with  patching,  brought 
home  to  boost  along  some  young  wife  struggling 
with  a  teething  baby.  She  seemed  never  too  rushed 
to  tuck  in  an  extra  baking  for  someone  even  more 
rushed  than  herself,  or  to  make  delicious  broths  and 
tasty  dishes  for  sick  folk.  In  her  quiet  way,  she 
became  a  real  power,  always  in  demand,  the  first 
to  be  entrusted  with  sweet  secrets,  the  first  to  be 
sent  for  in  paralysing  emergencies  and  moments  of 
sorrow.  The  warmth  of  heart  which  Martin  ridi 
culed  and  resented,  intensified  by  its  very  repres 
sion,  bubbled  out  to  others  in  cheery  helpfulness, 
and  blessed  her  quick  tears. 

Of  her  deep  yearning  for  love,  she  never  spoke. 
Just  when  she  would  begin  to  feel  almost  self-suffi 
cient  it  would  quicken  to  a  throbbing  ache.  Usually, 
at  such  times,  she  buried  it  determinedly  under 
work.  But  one  day,  yielding  to  an  impulse,  she 
wrote  to  Norah  asking  if  her  little  namesake  could 
come  for  a  month's  visit. 

"I  know  she  is  only  seven,"  the  letter  ran,  "but 
I  am  sure  if  she  were  put  in  care  of  the  conductor 
she  would  come  through  safely,  and  I  do  so  want  to 


A   ROSE-BUD    IN    THE    DUST  99 

see  her."  After  long  hesitation,  she  enclosed  a  check 
to  cover  expenses.  She  was  half  frightened  by  her 
own  daring  and  did  not  tell  Martin  until  she  had 
received  the  reply  giving  the  date  for  the  child's 
arrival. 

"I  earned  that,  Martin,"  she  returned  deter 
minedly  to  his  emphatic  remonstrance.  "And  when 
the  check  comes  in  it's  going  to  be  honored." 

"A  Wade  check  is  always  honored,"  was  his  cryp 
tic  assertion.  "I  merely  say,"  he  added  more  calmly, 
"that  if  we  are  to  board  her,  and  I  don't  make  any 
protest  over  that  at  all,  it  seems  to  me  only  fair  that 
her  father  should  have  bought  the  ticket." 

"Maybe  you're  right  —  in  theory.  But  then  she 
simply  couldn't  have  come  and  I've  never  seen  her. 
I  first  knew  of  her  the  very  day  you  asked  me  to 
marry  you.  I've  thought  of  her,  often  and  often. 
Her  mother  named  her  after  me  and  calls  her  'Little 
Rose  of  Sharon,  Illinois'." 

"Another  rag-weed,  probably,"  said  Martin, 
shortly.  Yet,  to  his  own  surprise,  he  was  not  alto 
gether  sorry  she  was  to  come  —  this  house  of  his  had 
never  had  a  child  in  it  for  more  than  a  few  hours. 
He  was  rather  curious  to  find  out  how  it  would 
seem.  If  only  her  name  were  not  Rose,  and  if  only 
she  were  not  coming  from  Sharon. 

But  little  Rose,  with  her  dark  brown  curls,  merry 


100  DUST 

expression,  roguish  nose  and  soft  radiance  swept 
all  his  misgivings  and  prejudices  before  her.  One 
might  as  well  hold  grudges  against  a  flower,  he 
thought.  He  liked  the  confiding  way  she  had  of  sud 
denly  slipping  her  little  hand  into  his  great  one.  Her 
prattle  amused  him,  and  he  was  both  flattered  and 
worried  by  the  fearlessness  with  which  she  followed 
him  everywhere.  She  seemed  to  bring  a  veritable 
shower  of  song  into  this  home  of  long  silences.  The 
very  chaos  made  Mrs.  Wade's  heart  beat  tumultu- 
ously,  and  once  when  Martin  came  upon  the  little 
girl  seated  solemnly  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  corn 
cob  dolls,  his  throat  contracted  with  an  extraordi 
nary  tightness. 

"You  really  are  a  rose  —  a  lovely,  sweet  brown 
Rose  of  Sharon,"  he  had  exclaimed,  forgetting  his 
wife's  presence  and  not  stopping  to  think  how 
strange  the  words  must  sound  on  his  lips.  "If  you'll 
give  me  a  kiss,  I'll  let  you  ride  on  old  Jettie." 

The  child  scrambled  to  her  feet  and,  seated  on 
his  broad  shoulder,  granted  the  demand  for  toll. 
Her  aunt's  eyes  filled.  This  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  heard  Martin  ask  for  something  as  senti 
mental  as  a  kiss.  She  was  thoroughly  ashamed  of 
herself  for  it  —  it  was  really  too  absurd !  —  but  she 
felt  jealousy,  an  emotion  that  had  never  bothered 
her  since  they  had  been  married.  And  this  bit  of 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  101 

chattering  femininity  had  caused  it.  Mrs.  Wade 
worked  faster. 

The  kiss  was  like  the  touch  of  silk  against  Mar 
tin's  cheek.  He  felt  inexplicably  sad  as  he  put  the 
child  down  again  among  her  playthings.  There 
was,  he  realized  with  a  shock,  much  that  he  was 
missing,  things  he  was  letting  work  supplant.  He 
wished  that  boy  of  theirs  could  have  lived.  All 
might  have  been  different.  He  had  almost  for 
gotten  that  disappointment,  had  never  understood 
until  this  moment  what  a  misfortune  it  had  been, 
and  here  he  was  being  gripped  by  a  more  poignant 
sense  of  loss  than  he  had  ever  before  felt,  even  when 
he  had  lost  his  mother. 

Wonderful  as  little  Rose  was,  she  was  not  his  own. 
But,  he  wondered  suddenly,  wasn't  this  aching  sense 
of  need  perhaps  something  utterly  different  from  un 
satisfied  paternal  instinct?  He  turned  his  head 
toward  the  kitchen  where  his  Rag- weed  was  working 
and  asked  himself  if  she  were  gone  and  some  other 
woman  were  here  —  such  as  little  Rose  might  be 
when  she  grew  up,  one  to  whom  he  went  out  spon 
taneously,  would  not  his  life  be  more  complete  and 
far  more  worth  while?  What  a  fool  he  was,  to  bother 
his  head  with  such  get-nowhere  questions!  He  dis 
missed  them  roughly,  but  new  processes  of  thought 
had  been  opened,  new  emotions  awakened. 


102  DUST 

Meanwhile,  little  Rose's  response  to  his  clumsy 
tenderness  taught  him  many  unsuspected  lessons. 
He  never  would  have  believed  the  pleasure  there 
could  be  in  simply  watching  a  child's  eyes  light  with 
glee  over  a  five-cent  bag  of  candy.  It  began  to  be 
a  regular  thing  for  him  to  bring  one  home  from  Fal- 
lon,  each  trip,  and  the  gay  hunts  that  followed  as 
she  searched  for  it  —  sometimes  to  find  the  treasure 
in  Martin's  hat,  sometimes  under  the  buggy  seat, 
sometimes  in  a  knobby  hump  under  the  table-cloth 
at  her  plate  —  more  than  once  brought  his  rare 
smile.  For  years  afterward,  the  memory  of  one 
evening  lingered  with  him.  He  was  resting  in  an  old 
chair  tipped  back  against  the  house,  thinking  deeply, 
when  the  little  girl,  tired  from  her  play,  climbed 
into  his  lap  and,  making  a  cozy  nest  for  herself  in 
the  crook  of  his  arm,  fell  asleep.  He  had  finished 
planning  out  the  work  upon  which  he  had  been  con 
centrating  and  had  been  about  to  take  her  into  the 
house  when  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  child's 
loveliness.  In  the  silvery  moonlight  all  the  fairy, 
flower-like  quality  of  her  was  enhanced.  Martin 
studied  her  closely,  reverently.  It  was  his  first  con 
scious  worship  of  beauty.  Leaning  down  to  the 
rosy  lips  he  listened  to  the  almost  imperceptible 
breathing;  he  touched  the  long,  sweeping  lashes  rest 
ing  on  the  smooth  cheeks  and  lifted  one  of  the  curls 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN   THE   DUST          103 

the  wind  had  been  ruffling  lightly  against  his  face. 
With  his  whole  soul,  he  marvelled  at  her  softness 
and  relaxation.  A  profound,  pitying  rebellion 
gripped  him  at  the  idea  that  anything  so  sweet,  so 
perfect  must  pass  slowly  through  the  defacing  fur 
naces  of  time  and  pain.  "Little  Rose  of  Sharon!"  he 
thought  gently,  conscious  of  an  actual  tearing  at 
his  heart,  even  a  startling  stinging  in  his  eyes.  With 
an  abruptness  that  almost  awakened  her,  he  carried 
her  in  to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Wade  felt  an  inexplicable  hurt  at  the  de- 
cidedness  of  little  Rose's  preference  for  Martin.  She 
could  not  understand  it.  She  took  exquisite  care  of 
her,  cooked  the  things  she  liked  best,  let  her  mess  to 
her  heart's  content  in  the  kitchen,  made  her  dolls 
pretty  frocks,  cuddled  her,  told  her  stories  and 
stopped  her  work  to  play  with  her  on  rainy  days  — 
but  she  could  not  win  the  same  affection  the  little 
girl  bestowed  so  lavishly  on  Martin.  If  left  to  her 
self  she  was  always  to  be  found  with  the  big,  silent 
man. 

As  the  month's  visit  lengthened  into  three,  it  was 
astonishing  what  good  times  they  had  together.  If 
he  was  pitching  hay,  her  slender  little  figure,  short 
dress  a-flutter,  was  to  be  seen  standing  on  the  fra 
grant  wagonload.  At  threshing  time,  she  darted 
lightly  all  over  the  separator,  Martin's  watchful  eye 


104  DUST 

constantly  upon  her,  and  his  protective  hand  near 
her.  She  went  with  him  to  haul  the  grain  to  mill 
and  was  fascinated  by  the  big  scales.  On  the  way 
there  and  back  he  let  her  hold  the  great  lines  in  her 
little  fists.  In  the  dewy  mornings,  she  hop-skipped 
and  jumped  by  his  side  into  the  pasture  to  bring  in 
the  cows.  She  flitted  in  and  out  among  them  during 
milking  time. 

"I  think  she  makes  them  too  nervous,  Martin," 
Rose  had  once  remarked.  "Better  run  out,  darling, 
until  we  finish  and  then  come  help  auntie  in  the 
dairy." 

"They  might  as  well  get  used  to  her,"  he  had  an 
swered  tersely.  "It'll  hurt  her  feelings  to  be  sent 
away." 

Rose  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears.  Memories, 
bitter,  intolerable,  crowded  upon  her.  Had  the  little 
girl  really  changed  Martin  so  completely?  Oh,  if 
only  her  boy  could  have  lived!  Perhaps  she  had 
made  a  great  mistake  in  being  so  determined  not  to 
have  another.  Was  it  too  late  now?  She  looked  at 
her  husband.  Well  as  she  knew  every  detail  of  his 
fine,  clean  cut  features,  his  broad  shoulders  and  rip 
pling  muscles,  they  gave  her  a  sudden  thrill.  It  was 
as  if  she  were  seeing  him  again  for  the  first  time  in 
years.  If  only  he  could  let  a  shadow  of  this  new 
thoughtfulness  and  kindliness  fall  on  her,  they  might 


A   ROSE-BUD   IN    THE    DUST  105 

even  yet  bring  some  joy  into  each  other's  lives.  They 
had  stepped  off  on  the  wrong  foot.  Why,  they  really 
hadn't  been  even  acquainted.  They  had  been  led 
into  thinking  so  because  of  the  length  of  time  they 
had  both  been  familiar  figures  in  the  same  com 
munity.  Beyond  a  doubt,  if  they  were  being  married 
today,  and  she  understood  him  as  she  did  now,  she 
could  make  a  success  of  their  marriage.  But,  as  it 
was,  Martin  was  so  fixed  in  the  groove  of  his  atti 
tude  of  utter  indifference  toward  her  that  she  felt 
there  was  little  chance  of  ever  jogging  him  out  of 
it.  To  Rose,  the  very  fact  that  the  possibility  of 
happiness  seemed  so  nearly  within  reach  was  what 
put  the  cruel  edge  to  their  present  status. 

She  did  not  comprehend  that  Martin  definitely  did 
not  want  it  changed.  Conscious,  at  last,  that  he  was 
slowly  starving  for  a  woman's  love,  beginning  to 
brood  because  there  was  no  beauty  in  his  life,  he 
was  looking  at  her  with  eyes  as  newly  appraising  as 
her  own.  He  remembered  her  as  she  had  been  that 
day  in  the  bank,  when  he  had  thought  her  like  a 
rose.  She  had  been  all  white  and  gold  then;  now, 
hair,  eyes,  skin,  and  clothes  seemed  to  him  to  be  of 
one  earthy  color.  Her  clean,  dull  calico  dress  belted 
in  by  her  checked  apron  revealed  the  ungraceful 
lines  of  her  figure.  She  looked  middle-aged  and  un 
shapely,  when  he  wanted  youth  and  an  exquisite 


106  DUST 

loveliness.  Well,  he  told  himself,  harshly,  he  was 
not  likely  to  get  it.  There  was  no  sense  in  harboring 
such  notions.  They  must  be  crushed.  He  would 
work  harder,  much  harder,  hard  enough  to  forget 
them.  There  was  but  one  thing  worth  while  —  his 
farm.  He  would  develop  it  to  its  limits. 

Accordingly,  when  little  Rose  returned  to  Sharon, 
he  and  his  Rag-weed  soon  settled  themselves  to  the 
old  formula  of  endless  toil,  investing  the  profits  in 
sound  farm  mortgages  that  were  beginning  to  tax 
the  capacity  of  his  huge  tin  box  in  the  vault  of  the 
First  State  Bank. 


V 

DUST   BEGETS   DUST 


V 

DUST  BEGETS  DUST 

YET,  through  the  Wades'  busy  days  the  echo 
of  little  Rose's  visit  lingered  persistently. 
Each  now  anxiously  wanted  another  child, 
but  both  were  careful  to  keep  this  longing  locked  in 
their  separate  bosoms.  Their  constraint  with  each 
other  was  of  far  too  long  a  standing  to  permit  of 
any  sudden  exchange  of  confidences.  It  was  with 
this  hope  half -acknowledged,  however,  and  in  her 
mind  the  recent  memories  of  a  more  approachable 
Martin,  that  Rose  began  to  make  a  greater  effort 
with  her  appearance.  By  dint  of  the  most  skillful 
maneuvering,  she  contrived  to  purchase  herself  a 
silk  dress  —  the  first  since  her  marriage.  It  was  of 
dark  blue  crepe-de-chine,  simply  but  becomingly 
made,  the  very  richness  of  its  folds  shedding  a  new 
luster  over  her  quiet  graciousness  and  large  propor 
tions.  Even  her  kind,  capable  hands  seemed  subtly 
ennobled  as  they  emerged  from  the  luscious,  well- 
fitting  sleeves,  and  the  high  collar,  with  its  narrow 
edge  of  lace,  stressed  the  nobility  of  her  fine  head. 
When  she  came  home  from  church,  she  did  not,  as 

109 


110  DUST 

she  would  have  heretofore,  change  at  once  into 
calico,  but  protected  by  a  spick  and  span  white 
apron,  kept  on  the  best  frock  through  dinner  and, 
frequently,  until  chore  time  in  the  afternoon.  In 
the  winter,  too,  she  was  exposed  less  to  sun  and  wind 
and  her  skin  lost  much  of  its  weathered  look.  She 
took  better  care  of  it  and  was  more  careful  with  the 
arrangement  of  her  hair.  Gradually  a  new  series  of 
impressions  began  to  register  on  Martin's  brain. 

One  Sunday  she  came  in  fresh  and  ruddy  from  the 
drive  home  in  the  cold,  crisp  air.  Martin  found  it 
rather  pleasant  to  watch  her  brisk  movements  as 
she  prepared  the  delayed  meal.  He  observed,  with 
something  of  a  mental  start,  that  today,  at  least,  she 
still  had  more  than  a  little  of  the  old  sumptuous, 
full-blown  quality.  It  reminded  him,  together  with 
the  deft  way  in  which  she  hurried,  without  haste, 
without  flurry,  of  their  first  evening  in  the  shack, 
nearly  seven  years  ago.  How  tense  they  both  had 
been,  how  afraid  of  each  other,  how  she  had  irritated 
him!  Well,  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  at 
last,  thanks  be.  Was  he,  perhaps,  foolish  not  to  get 
more  out  of  their  life  —  it  was  not  improbable  that 
a  child  might  come.  Why  had  he  been  taking  it 
so  for  granted  that  this  was  out  of  the  question? 
When  one  got  right  down  to  it,  just  what  was  the 
imaginary  obstacle  that  was  blocking  the  realization 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  111 

of  this  deep  wish?  Her  chance  of  not  pulling 
through?  He'd  get  her  a  hired  girl  this  time  and 
let  her  have  her  own  head  about  things.  She'd 
made  it  all  right  once,  why  not  again?  The  settled- 
ness  of  their  habitual  neutrality?  What  of  it?  He 
would  ignore  that.  It  wasn't  as  if  he  had  to  court 
her,  make  explanations.  She  was  his  wife.  He  didn't 
love  her,  never  had,  never  would,  but  life  was  too 
short  to  be  overly  fastidious.  It  was  flying,  flying 
—  in  a  few  more  years  he  would  be  fifty.  Fifty! 
And  what  had  it  all  been  about,  anyway?  He  did 
have  this  farm  to  show  for  his  work  —  he  had  not 
made  a  bad  job  of  that,  he  and  his  Rag-weed.  In 
her  own  fashion  she  was  a  good  sort,  and  better  look 
ing  than  most  women  past  forty. 

Rose  felt  the  closeness  of  his  scrutiny,  sensed  the 
unusual  cordiality  of  his  mood,  but  from  the  depths 
of  her  hardly  won  wisdom  took  no  apparent  notice 
of  it.  She  knew  well  enough  how  not  to  annoy  him. 
If  only  she  had  not  learned  too  late!  What  was  it 
about  Martin,  she  wondered  afresh,  that  had  held 
her  through  all  these  deadening  years?  Her  love 
for  him  was  like  a  stream  that,  disappearing  for  long 
periods  underground,  seemed  utterly  lost,  only  to 
emerge  again  unexpectedly,  cleared  of  all  past 
murkiness,  tranquil  and  deep. 

This  unspoken  converging  of  minds,  equivocal 


112  DUST 

though  it  was  on  Martin's  part,  resulted  gradually 
in  a  more  friendly  period.  Rose  always  liked  to 
remember  that  winter,  with  its  peace  that  quenched 
her  thirsty  heart  and  helped  to  blur  the  recollection 
of  old  unkindnesses  long  since  forgiven,  but  still  too 
vividly  recalled.  When,  a  year  later,  Billy  was  born, 
she  was  swept  up  to  that  dizzy  crest  of  rapture 
which,  to  finely  attuned  souls,  is  the  recompense  and 
justification  of  all  their  valleys. 

Martin  watched  her  deep,  almost  painful  delight, 
with  a  profound  envy.  He  had  looked  forward,  with 
more  anticipation  than  even  he  himself  had  realized, 
to  the  thrill  which  he  had  supposed  fatherhood 
would  bring,  taking  it  entirely  for  granted  that  he 
would  feel  a  bond  with  this  small  reincarnation  of 
his  own  being,  but  after  the  first  week  of  attempting 
to  get  interested  in  the  unresponsive  bundle  that 
was  his  son,  he  decided  the  idea  of  a  baby  had  cer 
tainly  signified  in  his  mind  emotions  which  this 
tiny,  troublesome  creature,  with  a  voice  like  a  small- 
sized  foghorn,  did  not  cause  to  materialize.  No  doubt 
when  it  grew  into  a  child  he  would  feel  very  differ 
ently  toward  it  —  more  as  he  did  toward  little  Rose, 
but  that  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  and  meanwhile  he 
could  not  shake  off  a  feeling  of  acute  disappoint 
ment,  of  defeated  hopes. 

By  the  end  of  the  second  month,  he  was  sure  he 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  113 

must  have  been  out  of  his  senses  to  bring  such  a 
nuisance  upon  himself  and  into  his  well-ordered 
house.  Not  only  was  his  rest  disturbed  with  trying 
regularity  by  night,  and  his  meals  served  with  an 
equally  trying  irregularity  by  day,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  deal  with  an  altogether  changed  wife. 
For,  yielding  as  Rose  was  in  all  other  matters,  where 
Billy  was  concerned  she  was  simply  imperturbable. 
At  times,  as  she  held  the  chubby  little  fellow  to  her 
breast  or  caught  and  kissed  a  waving  pink  foot,  she 
would  feel  a  sense  of  physical  weakness  come  over 
her  —  it  seemed  as  if  her  breath  would  leave  her. 
Martin  could  be  what  he  might;  life,  at  last,  was 
worth  its  price.  With  the  courage  of  her  mother- 
love  she  could  resist  anything  and  everyone. 

To  her,  the  relative  importance  of  the  farm  to 
Billy  was  as  simple  as  a  problem  in  addition.  She 
had  lost  none  of  her  old  knack  for  turning  off  large 
amounts  of  work  quickly,  but  she  firmly  stopped  just 
short  of  the  point  where  her  milk  might  be  im 
paired  by  her  exertions.  Martin  had  insisted  that 
the  requirement  for  hired  help  was  over;  however, 
in  despair  over  his  wife's  determined  sabotage,  it 
was  Martin  himself  who  commanded  that  the  girl 
be  reinstated  for  another  two  months. 

Rose  was  a  methodical  mother  and  not  overly 
fussy.  As  soon  as  Billy  could  sit  in  a  highchair  or 


114  DUST 

an  ordinary  packing  box  on  the  floor,  she  kept  him 
with  her  while  she  went  about  her  different  tasks, 
cooing  and  laughing  with  him  as  she  worked,  but 
when  he  needed  attention  she  could  disregard  calling 
dishes,  chickens,  half-churned  butter,  unfinished 
ironing,  unmilked  cows  or  an  irate  husband  with  a 
placidity  that  was  worthy  of  the  old  Greek  gods. 
Martin  was  dumbfounded  to  the  point  of  stupefac 
tion.  He  was  too  thoroughly  self-centred,  however, 
to  let  other  than  his  own  preferences  long  dominate 
his  Rag-weed's  actions.  Her  first  duty  was  clearly 
to  administer  to  his  comfort,  and  that  was  precisely 
what  she  would  do.  It  was  ridiculous,  the  amount 
of  time  she  gave  to  that  baby  —  out  of  all  rhyme 
and  reason.  If  she  wasn't  feeding  him,  she  was 
changing  him;  if  she  wasn't  bathing  him  she  was 
rocking  him  to  sleep.  And  there,  at  last,  Martin 
found  a  tangible  point  of  resistance,  for  he  dis 
covered  from  Nellie  that  not  only  was  it  not  nec 
essary  to  rock  a  baby,  but  that  it  was  contrary  to  the 
new  ideas  currently  endorsed.  Reinforced,  he  ar 
gued  the  matter,  adding  that  he  could  remember 
distinctly  his  own  mother  had  never  rocked  Benny. 

"Yes,  and  Benny  died." 

"It  wasn't  her  fault  if  he  did,"  he  retorted,  a  trifle 
disconcerted. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.    She  took  chances  I 


DUST   BEGETS  DUST  115 

would  never  take  with  Billy.  She  sacrificed  him, 
with  her  eyes  open,  for  you  and  Nellie  —  gave  him 
up  so  'that  you  could  have  this  farm." 

Martin  did  not  care  for  this  new  version.  "What 
has  that  to  do  with  the  question?"  he  demanded 
coldly. 

"Just  this  —  your  mother  had  her  ideas  and  I 
have  mine.  I  am  going  to  raise  Billy  in  my  own 
way."  But,  for  weeks  thereafter  she  managed  with 
an  almost  miraculous  adroitness  to  have  him  asleep 
at  meal  times. 

At  seven  months,  Billy  was  the  most  adorable, 
smiling,  cuddly  baby  imaginable,  with  dimples,  four 
teeth  and  a  tantalizing  hint  of  curl  in  his  soft,  sur 
prisingly  thick,  fawn-colored  hair.  Already,  it  was 
quite  evident  that  he  had  his  mother's  sensitive, 
affectionate  nature.  If  only  his  father  had  picked 
him  up,  occasionally,  had  talked  to  him  now  and 
then,  he  scarcely  could  have  resisted  the  little  fel 
low's  crowing,  sweet-tempered,  responsive  charm, 
but  resentment  at  the  annoyance  of  his  presence  was 
now  excessive.  For  the  present,  Martin's  only 
concern  in  his  son  consisted  in  seeing  to  it  that  his 
effacement  was  as  nearly  complete  as  possible. 

The  long-impending  clash  came  one  evening  after 
a  sultry,  dusty  day  when  Rose,  occupied  with  a  large 
washing  in  the  morning  and  heavy  work  in  the  dairy 


116  DUST 

in  the  afternoon,  realized  with  compunction  that 
never  had  she  come  so  near  to  neglecting  her  boy. 
Tired  and  hot  from  fretting,  he  had  been  slow  about 
going  to  sleep,  and  was  just  dozing  off,  when  Martin 
came  in,  worn  out  and  hungry. 

"Isn't  supper  ready  yet?" 

"All  but  frying  the  sausage,"  Rose  answered, 
achieving  a  pleasant  tone  in  spite  of  her  jadedness. 
"He's  almost  turning  the  corner  — hear  his  little 
sleepy  song?  Sit  down  and  cool  off.  I'll  have  it 
ready  by  the  time  you  and  the  boys  are  washed." 

Under  its  thick  coat  of  tan,  Martin's  face  went 
white.  "I've  had  enough  of  this,"  he  announced 
levelly.  "You'll  put  him  down  and  fry  that  meat." 

"Wait  just  a  minute,"  she  coaxed;  "he'll  be  off  for 
the  night  and  if  you  wake  him,  he'll  cry  and  get  all 
worked  up." 

"You  heard  what  I  said."  His  tone  was  vibrant 
with  determination.  "How  am  I  going  to  keep  hired 
men  if  you  treat  them  like  this?  When  they  come 
in  to  eat,  they  want  to  find  their  food  on  the  table." 

"This  doesn't  often  happen  any  more  and  they 
know,  good  and  well,  I  make  it  up  to  them  in  other 
ways,"  returned  Rose  truthfully. 

For  answer,  he  crossed  over  to  her  quickly,  reached 
down  and  took  the  baby  from  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?"  she  de- 


DUST   BEGETS   DUST  117 

manded,  a-tremble  with  rage  and  a  sense  of  impo 
tent  helplessness,  as,  avoiding  her  quick  movement, 
Martin  went  into  the  bedroom. 

"Let  him  go  to  sleep  as  other  children  do,  while 
you  finish  getting  supper.  Do  you  want  to  make 
a  sissy  of  him?" 

"A  lot  you  care  what  he  becomes!"  she  flashed, 
conflicting  impulses  contending  for  mastery,  as  Billy, 
now  thoroughly  awake  and  seeing  his  mother,  began 
to  cry,  pleading  to  her  with  big  blue  eyes  and  out 
stretched  arms  to  take  him.  She  started  forward, 
but  Martin  stepped  between  herself  and  the  crib. 

"Martin  Wade,  let  me  pass.    He's  mine." 

"It  isn't  going  to  hurt  him  to  cry.  He  does  it 
often  enough." 

"If  you  had  a  really  cross  baby  around  you'd  know 
how  good  and  reasonable  Billy  is,"  she  flamed,  torn 
by  the  little  sobs. 

"You  get  out  to  that  kitchen,"  he  ordered,  more 
openly  angry  than  Rose  had  ever  seen  him.  "I've 
had  enough  of  this  talk,  do  you  hear,  and  enough  of 
this  way  of  doing.  Don't  you  set  foot  in  here  again 
till  supper's  over.  Fve  had  quite  enough,  too,  of 
jumping  up  and  down  to  wait  on  myself." 

Confusedly,  Rose  thought  of  her  countless  hours 
of  lost  sleep,  her  even  yet  unrecovered  strength,  the 
enormous  readjustment  of  her  own  life  in  her  sincere 


118  DUST 

efforts  to  do  her  best  by  the  whole  household,  her 
joyous  acceptance  of  all  the  perpetual  self-denial 
her  new  duties  to  Billy  necessitated.  In  comparison, 
the  inconveniences  to  which  Martin  had  been  put 
seemed  trifling.  The  occasional  delays,  and  the  un 
usual  bother  of  stepping  to  the  stove,  now  and  then, 
to  pour  himself  and  the  men  a  hot  cup  of  coffee  — 
this  was  their  sum  total.  And  how  injured  he  really 
felt!  The  injustice  of  it  left  her  speechless.  Nails 
biting  into  her  hands  in  her  struggle  for  self-control, 
she  left  the  room.  With  a  slam  of  the  door  behind 
him,  Martin  followed  her. 

Blindly  she  strove  for  reason.  Billy  would  simply 
cry  himself  to  sleep  —  it  was  bad  for  his  whole  ner 
vous  system,  but  it  would  not  actually  make  him 
sick.  What  a  chaos  must  be  in  that  little  heart! 
His  mother  had  failed  him  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life.  It  was  cruel,  the  way  Martin  had  forced  her 
to  this,  and  as  she  listened,  for  the  next  half  hour, 
to  the  muffled  sound  of  Billy's  crying  and  saw  how 
impervious  to  it  Martin  was,  she  knew  that  never 
again  could  things  be  the  same  between  her  husband 
and  herself. 

But  when,  supper  over,  she  found  the  corners  of 
the  rosebud  mouth  still  pathetically  down  and 
Billy's  breath  still  quivering  in  long  gasps,  she  gath 
ered  the  snuggly  body  to  her  and  vowed  in  little 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  119 

broken  love-words  that  from  now  on  his  father 
should  have  no  further  opportunities  for  discipline. 
Knowing  him  as  she  did,  she  should  have  trained  the 
baby  in  the  first  place  to  go  to  sleep  alone,  should 
have  denied  herself  those  added  sweet  moments. 
After  this  she  would  be  on  her  guard,  forestall  Mar 
tin,  do  tenderly  what  he  would  do  harshly.  Never 
again  should  her  boy  be  made  to  suffer  through  any 
such  mistaken  selfishness  of  hers. 

And  though,  after  a  while,  the  importance  of  this 
episode  shrank  to  its  true  proportions,  she  never 
forgot  or  broke  this  promise.  It  would  have  been 
literally  impossible  for  her  to  touch  Billy,  even  when 
he  was  naughtiest  and  most  exasperating,  with  other 
than  infinite  love,  but  she  had  an  even  firmness  of 
her  own.  As  sensitive  as  herself,  adoring  her  to  the 
point  of  worship,  he  was  easily  punished  by  her  dis 
pleasure  or  five  minutes  of  enforced  quiet  on  a  chair. 
The  note  of  dread  in  her  voice  as  she  pleaded: 
"Hush,  oh,  hush,  Billy,  be  good;  quick,  darling, 
papa's  coming,"  was  always  effective.  By  ceaseless 
vigilance  and  indefatigable  patience,  she  evaded 
further  open  rupture  until  the  boy  was  three  years 
old. 

His  shrieks  had  brought  both  his  father  and  her 
self  flying  to  the  hog  barn  to  find  him  dancing  up 
and  down  as,  frightened  and  aghast,  he  vainly  at- 


120  DUST 

tempted  to  beat  off  old  Dorcas,  a  mammoth  sow, 
from  one  of  her  day-old  litter  on  which,  having 
crushed  it  by  accident,  she  was  now  quite  deliber 
ately  feasting. 

"God  Almighty!"  stormed  Martin,  hastily  putting 
the  little  pigs  back  into  the  next  pen.  "Who  let 
them  in  to  her?  That's  her  old  trick." 

"I  opened  the  door,"  confessed  Billy,  troubled, 
frank  eyes  looking  straight  into  his  father's.  "They 
were  hungry;  that  one  wanted  her  most."  And,  at 
the  thought  of  the  tragedy  he  had  witnessed,  he 
flung  himself  heartbroken  into  his  mother's  comfort 
ing  arms. 

"I'll  whip  you  for  this,"  said  Martin  sternly. 

"Oh,  please!"  protested  Rose,  gathering  the  child 
closer.  "Can't  you  see  he's  had  a  bitter  enough 
lesson?  His  little  heart  is  full." 

"He's  got  to  learn,  once  and  for  all,  not  to  meddle 
with  the  stock.  Come  here." 

"No!  I  won't  have  it.  I'll  see  to  it  that  he  never 
does  a  thing  like  this  again.  He's  too  young  to  un 
derstand.  He's  never  been  struck  in  his  life.  You 
shan't." 

Martin's  cold  blue  eyes  looked  icily  into  his  wife's 
blazing  gray  ones.  "Don't  act  like  a  fool.  Suppose 
he  had  gotten  in  there  himself,  and  had  fallen  down 
—  do  you  think  she'd  have  waited  to  kill  him? 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  121 

Where'd  he  be  now  —  like  that?"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  half-eaten  carcass. 

Rose  shuddered.  There  it  was  again  —  the  same, 
familiar,  disarming  plausibility  of  Martin's,  the  old 
trick  of  making  her  seem  to  be  the  one  in  the  wrong. 

"I  wish  I  had  an  acre  for  every  good  thrashing  I 
got  when  I  was  a  boy,"  he  commented  drily.  "But 
in  those  days  a  father  who  demanded  obedience 
wasn't  considered  a  monster." 

"If  you  only  loved  him,  I  wouldn't  care,"  sobbed 
Rose.  "I  could  stand  it  better  to  have  you  hit  him 
in  anger,  but  you're  so  hard,  so  cruel.  You  plan  it 
all  out  so  —  how  can  you?" 

Nevertheless,  with  a  last  convulsive  hug  and  a 
broken  "Mother  can't  help  it,  darling,"  she  put  Billy 
on  his  feet,  her  tormented  heart  wrung  with  bitter 
ness  as  Martin  took  the  clinging  child  from  her  and 
carried  him  away,  hysterical  and  resisting. 

"What  else  could  I  do?"  she  asked  herself  miser 
ably,  stabbed  by  the  added  fear  that  Billy  might  not 
forgive  her.  Could  he  understand  how  powerless 
she  had  been? 

When  once  more  the  child  was  cuddled  against 
her,  she  realized  that  in  some  mystical  way  there 
was  a  new  bond  between  them,  and  as  the  days 
passed,  she  discovered  it  was  not  so  much  the  whip 
ping,  but  the  unnatural  perfidy  of  Dorcas  that  had 


122  DUST 

scarred  his  mind.  With  his  own  eyes  he  had  seen 
a  mother  devour  her  baby.  He  woke  from  dreams 
of  it  at  night.  Even  the  sight  of  her  in  the  pasture 
contentedly  suckling  the  remaining  nine  did  not 
reassure  him.  The  modern  methods  of  psychology 
were  then,  to  such  women  as  Rose,  a  sealed  book, 
but  love  and  intuition  taught  her  to  apply  them. 

"You  see,  Billy,"  she  explained,  "hogs  are  meant 
to  eat  meat  like  dogs  or  bears  or  tigers.  But  they 
can  live  on  just  grain  and  grass,  and  that  is  what 
most  farmers  make  them  do  because  there  is  so 
much  more  of  it  and  it  costs  so  much  less.  Some  of 
them  feed  what  is  called  tankage.  If  old  Dorcas 
could  have  had  some  of  that  she  probably  would  not 
have  eaten  the  little  pig.  You  mustn't  blame  her 
too  much,  for  she  was  just  famishing  for  flesh,  the 
way  you  are,  sometimes,  for  a  drink  of  water,  when 
you've  been  playing  hard."  Thus  rationalized,  the 
old  sow's  conduct  lost  some  of  its  grewsomeness,  and 
in  time,  of  course,  the  shock  of  the  whole  experience 
was  submerged  under  other  and  newer  impressions, 
but  always  the  remembrance  of  it  floated  near  the 
surface  of  his  consciousness,  his  first  outstanding 
memory  of  his  father  and  the  farm. 

Inheriting  a  splendid  physique  from  both  parents, 
at  six  little  Bill  was  as  tall  as  the  average  child  of 
eight,  well  set  up  and  sturdy,  afraid  of  nothing  on 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  123 

the  place  except  Martin,  who,  resenting  his  attitude, 
not  unreasonably  put  the  blame  for  it  on  his  wife. 
"It's  not  what  I  do  to  him,"  he  told  her,  "it's  what 
you  teach  him  to  think  I  might  do  that  makes  him 
dislike  me."  To  which  Rose  looked  volumes,  but 
made  no  reply. 

Whatever  the  reason  for  the  child's  distrust,  and 
honestly  as  he  tried  not  to  let  it  affect  his  feeling 
for  his  son,  Martin  found  himself  as  much  repelled 
by  it  as  he  had  once  been  drawn  to  little  Rose  by 
her  sweet  faith  and  affection.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the 
only  too  slightly  veiled  enmity  between  them,  he 
was  rather  proud  of  the  handsome  lad  and  deter 
mined  to  give  him  a  thorough  stockman's  and  agri 
culturist's  training.  Some  day  he  would  run  this 
farm,  and  Martin  had  put  too  much  of  his  very 
blood  into  it  not  to  make  sure  that  the  hands  into 
which  it  would  fall  became  competent.  With  almost 
impersonal  approval  he  noticed  the  perfect  co-ordi 
nation  of  the  boy's  muscles,  his  insatiable  curiosity 
about  machinery  and  his  fondness  for  animals;  all 
of  which  only  made  his  pronounced  distaste  for  work 
just  that  much  more  aggravating.  He  was,  his  father 
decided  contemptuously,  a  dreamer. 

Martin  reached  this  conclusion  early  in  his  son's 
life  —  Bill  was  nine  —  and  he  determined  to  grind 
the  objectionable  tendency  out  of  him.  The 


124  DUST 

youngster  had  a  way  of  stopping  for  no  reason  what 
ever  and  just  standing  there.  For  all  his  iron  self- 
control,  it  nearly  drove  the  energetic  man  to 
violence.  He  would  leave  Bill  in  the  barn  to  shovel 
the  manure  into  the  litter-carrier  —  a  good  fifteen- 
minute  job;  he  would  return  in  half  an  hour  to  find 
him  sitting  in  the  alleyway,  staring  down  into  his 
idle  scoop. 

"God  Almighty!"  Martin  would  explode.  "How 
many  times  must  I  tell  you  to  do  a  thing?" 

The  boy  would  look  up  slowly,  like  a  frightened 
colt,  expecting  a  blow,  his  non-resistance  as  anger 
ing  as  his  indolence.  Gazing  at  the  enormous,  im* 
posing  person  who  was  his  father,  he  would  simply 
wait  with  wide  open  eyes  —  eyes  that  reminded 
Martin  of  a  calf  begging  for  a  bucket  of  milk. 

"I'm  asking  you!  Answer  when  I  speak.  Have 
you  lost  the  use  of  your  tongue?  What  are  you,  any 
way —  a  lump  of  jelly?  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  clean 
this  barn?  It's  fly  time  and  no  wonder  the  cows 
suffer  and  slack  up  on  their  milk  when  there  is  a 
lazy  bones  like  you  around  who  won't  even  help 
haul  away  the  manure." 

"I  was  just  a-goin'  to." 

"You  should  have  been  through  long  ago.  What 
are  you  good  for,  is  what  I'd  like  to  find  out.  You 
eat  a  big  bellyful  and  what  do  you  give  in  return? 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  125 

Do  you  expect  to  go  through  the  world  like  this  — 
having  other  people  do  your  work  for  you?  If 
this  job  isn't  finished  in  fifteen  minutes,  I'll  whip 
you." 

Bill  would  work  swiftly  and  painfully,  for  the 
carrier  was  high  and  hard  for  him  to  manipulate. 
But  he  would  do  his  best,  desperate  over  the  threat, 
his  whole  nature  rebelling,  not  so  much  at  the  task, 
as  at  the  interruption  of  the  pleasant  stream  of  pic 
tures  which  had  been  flowing  so  excitingly  through 
his  mind.  Always  it  was  like  this  —  just  when  he 
was  most  blissfully  happy,  he  was  jerked  back  to 
some  mean,  dirty  job  by  the  stern,  driving  demands 
of  his  tireless  father. 

Without  regard  to  the  fact  that  harness  is  heavy, 
and  a  horse's  back  high,  Martin  would  order  him  to 
hitch  up.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that  it  was  too 
much  for  the  child,  but  lack  of  affection,  and  a  vague, 
extenuating  belief  that  especially  trying  jobs  devel 
oped  one,  made  him  merciless.  The  boy  frequently 
boiled  with  rage,  but  he  was  so  weaponless,  so  com 
pletely  in  his  father's  power  —  there  was  no  escape 
from  this  tyranny.  He  knew  he  could  not  live  with 
out  him;  even  his  mother  could  not  do  that.  His 
mother !  What  a  sense  of  rest  would  come  over  him 
when  he  sat  in  her  capacious  lap,  his  head  on  her 
soft  shoulder.  With  her  cheek  against  his  and  her 


126  DUST 

kind  hand  gently  patting  the  back  of  his  still  chubby 
one,  something  hard  in  him  always  melted  away. 

"Why  do  I  love  you  so,  mama,"  he  asked  once, 
"and  hate  papa  so?" 

Mrs.  Wade  realized  what  was  in  his  sore  heart 
and  hers  ached  for  him,  but  she  answered  quietly: 
"You  mustn't  hate  anybody,  dear.  You  shouldn't." 

"I  don't  hate  anybody  but  him.  I  hate  him  and 
I'm  afraid  of  him  —  just  like  you  are." 

"Oh,  Billy,"  cried  Rose,  shocked  to  the  quick. 
"You  must  never,  never  say  I  hate  your  father  — 
when  you're  older  you'll  understand.  He  is  a  won 
derful  man." 

"He's  mean,"  said  Billy  succinctly.  "When  I  get 
big  I'm  going  to  run  away." 

"From  me?  Oh,  darling,  don't  think  such 
thoughts.  Papa  doesn't  intend  to  be  mean.  He 
just  doesn't  know  what  fun  it  is  to  play.  You  see, 
dear,  when  he  was  a  boy  like  you,  he  had  to  work, 
oh,  ever  and  ever  so  much  more  than  you  do  —  yes, 
he  did,"  she  nodded  solemnly  at  Bill's  incredulous 
stare.  "And  his  mother  never  talked  with  him  or 
held  him  close  as  I  do  you.  She  didn't  have  time. 
Aunt  Nellie  has  told  me  all  about  it.  He  just  worked 
and  worked  and  worked  —  they  all  did.  That's  all 
there  was  in  their  life  —  just  work.  Why,  when  he 
was  your  age,  his  father  was  at  war  and  papa  and 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  127 

Grandmother  Wade  had  to  do  everything.  He  did 
a  man's  share  at  fourteen  and  by  the  time  he  was 
fifteen,  he  ran  this  whole  farm.  Work  has  gotten 
to  be  a  habit  with  him  and  it's  made  him  different 
from  a  great  many  people.  But  he  thinks  that  is 
why  he's  gone  ahead  and  so  he's  trying  to  raise  you 
the  same  way.  If  he  really  didn't  care  about  you, 
Billy,  it  wouldn't  bother  him  what  you  did." 

In  the  silence  that  fell  they  could  hear  old  Molly 
bellowing  with  pathetic  monotony  for  her  calf  that 
had  been  taken  from  her.  Yesterday  she  had  been 
so  proud,  so  happy.  She  had  had  such  a  hard  time 
bringing  it  into  the  world,  too.  Martin  had  been 
obliged  to  tie  a  rope  to  its  protruding  legs  and  pull 
with  all  his  strength.  It  didn't  seem  fair  to  think 
that  the  trusting-eyed  little  fellow  had  been 
snatched  from  her  so  soon,  as  if  her  pain  had  been 
an  entirely  negligible  incident.  Already,  after  six 
short  weeks,  he  was  hanging,  drawn  and  quartered, 
in  one  of  Fallon's  meat-markets. 

"I  hate  this  place!"  burst  out  the  boy  passion 
ately.  "I  hate  it!" 

"All  farms  are  cruel,"  agreed  his  mother  quickly. 
"But  I  suppose  they  have  to  be.  People  must  have 
milk  and  they  must  have  veal." 

At  nine,  though  his  fingers  would  become  cramped 
and  his  wrists  would  pain  him,  Bill  had  three  cows 


128  DUST 

to  account  for  twice  a  day.  At  five  in  the  morning, 
he  would  be  shaken  by  Martin  and  told  to  hurry 
up.  It  would  be  dark  when  he  stepped  out  into  the 
chill  air,  and  he  would  draw  back  with  a  shiver. 
Somewhere  on  these  six  hundred  acres  was  the  herd 
and  it  was  his  chore  to  find  it  and  bring  it  in.  He 
would  go  struggling  through  the  pasture,  unable  to 
see  twenty-five  feet  ahead  of  him,  the  cold  dew  or 
snow  soaking  through  his  overalls,  his  shoes  be 
coming  wet.  Often  he  would  go  a  mile  north  only 
to  have  to  wander  to  another  end  of  the  farm  be 
fore  he  located  them.  Other  times,  when  he  was 
lucky,  they  would  be  waiting  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  barn.  Oh,  how  precious  the  warm  bed  was, 
and  how  his  growing  body  craved  a  few  more  hours 
of  sleep !  He  had  a  trick  of  pulling  the  sheet  up  over 
his  head,  as  if  thus  he  could  shut  out  the  world,  but 
always  his  father  was  there  to  rout  him  out  from 
this  nest  and  set  him  none  too  gently  on  his  feet; 
always  there  was  a  herd  to  be  brought  in  and  udders 
to  be  emptied.  It  made  no  difference  to  Martin 
that  the  daily  walk  to  and  from  the  district  school 
was  long,  and  left  no  spare  time;  it  made  no  dif 
ference  that  the  long  hours  at  his  lessons  left  the 
boy  longing  for  play  —  always  there  was  the  herd, 
twice  a  day,  cows  and  cows  without  end. 
At  twelve,  Bill  was  plowing  behind  four  heavy 


DUST   BEGETS  DUST  129 

horses.  He  could  run  a  mower,  and  clean  a  pasture 
of  weeds  in  a  day.  He  could  cultivate  and  handle 
the  manure  spreader.  In  the  hot,  blazing  sun,  he 
could  shock  wheat  behind  Martin,  who  sat  on  the 
binder  and  cut  the  beautiful  swaying  gold.  There 
wasn't  a  thing  he  could  not  do,  but  there  was  not 
one  that  he  did  with  a  willing  heart.  His  dreams 
were  all  of  escape  from  this  grinding,  harsh  farm. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  as  ruthless  as  his 
father;  that  everything  it  demanded  of  him  was, 
at  best,  just  a  little  beyond  his  strength.  If  there 
was  a  lever  to  be  pulled  on  the  disk,  very  likely  it 
was  rusted  and  refused  to  give  unless  he  yanked 
until  he  was  short  of  breath  and  his  heart  beat  fast ; 
four  horses  were  so  unruly  and  hard  to  keep  in  place ; 
the  gates  were  all  so  heavy  —  they  were  not  easy  to 
lift  and  then  drag  open.  It  was  such  a  bitter 
struggle  every  step  of  the  way.  It  was  so  hard  to 
plow  as  deeply  as  he  was  commanded.  It  was  so 
wearing  to  make  the  seed  bed  smooth  enough  to 
measure  up  to  his  father's  standard.  Never  was 
there  a  person  who  saw  less  to  love  about  a  farm 
than  this  son  of  Martin's.  He  even  ceased  to  take 
any  interest  in  the  little  colts. 

"You  used  to  be  foolish  about  them,"  Martin 
taunted,  "cried  whenever  I  broke  one." 

"If  I  don't  get  to  liking  'em,  I  don't  care  what 


130  DUST 

happens  to  em,"  Bill  answered  with  his  father's 
own  laconicism. 

This  chicken-heartedness,  as  he  dubbed  it,  dis 
gusted  Martin,  who  consequently  took  a  satisfaction 
in  compelling  the  boy  to  assist  him  actively  when 
ever  there  were  cattle  to  be  dehorned,  wire  rings  to 
be  pushed  through  bunches  of  pigs'  snouts,  calves  to 
be  delivered  by  force,  young  stuff  to  be  castrated 
or  butchering  to  be  done.  Often  the  sensitive  lad's 
nerves  were  strained  to  the  breaking  point  by  the 
inhuman  torture  he  was  constantly  forced  to  inflict 
upon  creatures  that  had  learned  to  trust  him.  There 
was  a  period  when  it  seemed  to  him  every  hour 
brought  new  horrors;  with  each  one,  his  determina 
tion  strengthened  to  free  himself  as  soon  as  possible 
from  this  life  that  was  one  round  of  toil  and  bru 
tality. 

Rose  gave  him  all  the  sympathy  and  help  her 
great  heart  knew.  His  rebellion  had  been  her  own, 
but  she  had  allowed  it  to  be  ground  out  of  her,  with 
her  soul  now  in  complete  surrender.  And  here  was 
her  boy  going  through  it  all  over  again,  for  himself, 
learning  the  dull  religion  of  toil  from  one  of  its  most 
fanatical  priests.  What  if  Bill,  too,  should  finally 
have  acquiescence  to  Martin  rubbed  into  his  very 
marrow,  should  absorb  his  father's  point  of  view, 
grow  up  and  run,  with  mechanical  obedience,  the 


DUST  BEGETS  DUST  131 

farm  he  abhorred?  The  very  possibility  made  her 
shudder.  If  only  she  could  rescue  him  in  some 
manner,  help  him  to  break  free  from  this  bondage. 
College  —  that  would  be  the  open  avenue.  Martin 
would  insist  upon  an  agricultural  course,  but  she 
would  use  all  her  tact  and  rally  all  her  powers  that 
Billy  might  be  given  the  opportunity  to  fit  himself 
for  some  congenial  occupation.  Martin  might  even 
die,  and  if  she  were  to  have  the  farm  to  sell  and  the 
interest  from  the  investments  to  live  on,  how  happy 
she  could  be  with  this  son  of  hers,  so  like  her  in 
temperament.  She  caught  herself  up  sharply.  Well, 
it  was  Martin  himself  who  was  driving  her  to  such 
thoughts. 

"You  are  like  old  Dorcas,"  she  once  told  her  hus 
band,  driven  desperate  by  the  exhausted,  harrowed 
look  that  was  becoming  habitual  in  Bill's  face. 
"You're  trampling  down  your  own  flesh  and  blood, 
that's  what  you're  doing  —  eating  the  heart  out  of 
your  own  boy." 

"Go  right  on,"  retorted  Martin,  all  his  loneliness 
finding  vent  in  his  bitter  sneer,  "tell  that  to  Bill. 
You've  turned  him  against  me  from  the  day  he  was 
born.  A  fine  chance  I've  ever  had  with  my  son!" 


VI 
DUST   IN  HIS   EYES 


VI 

DUST  IN  HIS  EYES 

SUCH  was  the  relationship  of  the  Wades  when 
one  morning  the  mail  brought  them  a  letter 
from  Sharon,  Illinois.  Rose  wrote  that  she 
was  miserably  unhappy  with  her  step-mother. 
Could  she  live  with  them  until  she  found  a  job? 
She  had  been  to  business  college  and  was  a  dandy 
stenographer.  Maybe  Uncle  Martin  could  help  her 
get  located  in  Fallen. 

"Of  course  I  will,  if  she's  got  her  head  set  on 
working,"  was  his  comment.  "I'll  telegraph  her  to 
come  right  along.  Might  as  well  wire  the  fare,  too, 
while  I'm  about  it  and  tell  her  to  let  us  know  ex 
actly  when  she  can  get  here." 

Mrs.  Wade  looked  up  quickly  at  this  unusual  gen 
erosity,  yet  she  was,  she  realized,  more  startled  than 
surprised.  For  had  not  little  Rose  been  the  one 
creature  Martin  had  loved  and  to  whom  he  had  en 
joyed  giving  pleasure?  It  had  been  charming  —  the 
response  of  the  big,  aloof  man  to  the  merry  child  of 
seven,  but  that  child  was  now  a  woman,  and,  in  all 
probability,  a  beautiful  one.  Wasn't  there  danger 

135 


136  DUST 

of  far  more  complicated  emotions  which  might  prove 
even  uprooting  in  their  consequences?  Mrs.  Wade 
blushed.  Really,  she  chided  herself  sternly,  she 
wouldn't  have  believed  she  could  be  such  an  old 
goose  —  going  out  of  her  way  to  borrow  trouble. 
If  her  husband  was  moved  to  be  hospitable,  she 
ought  to  be  wholly  glad,  not  petty  enough  to  resent 
it.  She  would  put  such  thoughts  out  of  her  mind, 
indeed  she  would,  and  welcome  Rose  as  she  would 
have  wanted  Norah  to  have  welcomed  Bill,  had  the 
circumstances  been  reversed.  It  would  be  lovely  to 
have  the  girl  about  —  she  would  be  so  much  com 
pany,  and  the  atmosphere  of  light-hearted  youth 
which  she  would  bring  with  her  would  be  just  what 
Billy  needed.  By  the  time  Rose's  answer  came, 
saying  she  would  arrive  in  two  weeks,  her  aunt  was 
genuinely  enthusiastic. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Martin,  "if  we  could  build  on 
an  extra  room  by  then.  If  she's  going  to  make  this 
her  home,  she  can't  be  crowded  as  if  she  was  just 
here  for  a  short  visit.  I'll  hunt  up  Fletcher  this 
afternoon." 

Mrs.  Wade's  lips  shut  tight,  as  she  grappled  with 
an  altogether  new  kind  of  jealousy.  To  think  that 
Martin  should  delight  in  giving  to  an  outsider  a 
pleasure  he  had  persistently  denied  his  own  son. 
How  often  had  she  pleaded :  "It's  a  shame  to  make 


DUST  IN  HIS   EYES  187 

Billy  sleep  in  the  parlor!  A  boy  ought  to  have  one 
spot  to  himself  where  he  can  keep  his  own  little 
treasures."  But  always  she  had  been  met  with  a 
plausible  excuse  or  a  direct  refusal.  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  thankful  someone  can  strike  an  unselfish 
chord  in  him,"  she  thought,  wearily. 

"You'll  have  to  get  some  furniture/'  Martin  con 
tinued  placidly.  "Mahogany's  the  thing  nowa 
days." 

"It's  fearfully  expensive,"  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Might  as  well  get  something 
good  while  we're  buying.  And  while  you're  at  it, 
pick  out  some  of  those  curtains  that  have  flowers 
and  birds  on  'em  and  a  pretty  rug  or  two.  I'll  have 
Fletcher  put  down  hard  oak  flooring;  and  I  guess  it 
won't  make  much  more  of  a  mess  if  we  go  ahead  and 
connect  up  the  house  with  the  rest  of  the  Delco 
system." 

"It's  about  time,"  put  in  Bill,  who  had  been  listen 
ing  round-eyed,  until  now  actually  more  than  half 
believing  his  father  to  be  in  cynical  jest.  "We're 
known  all  over  the  county  as  the  place  that  has 
electric  lights  in  the  barns  and  lamps  in  the  house." 

"It  hasn't  been  convenient  to  do  it  before,"  was 
the  crisp  answer. 

Bill  and  his  mother  exchanged  expressive  glances. 
When  was  anything  ever  convenient  for  Martin 


138  DUST 

Wade  unless  he  were  to  derive  a  direct,  personal 
satisfaction  from  it!  Then  it  became  a  horse  of 
quite  another  color.  He  could  even  become  lavish; 
everything  must  be  of  the  best;  nothing  else  would 
do;  no  expense,  as  long  as  full  value  was  received, 
was  too  great.  Mrs.  Wade  found  herself  searching 
her  memory.  She  was  positive  that  not  since  those 
occasions  upon  which  he  had  brought  home  the  sacks 
of  candy  for  the  sheer  sunshine  of  watching  little 
Rose's  glee  had  anyone's  pleasure  been  of  enough 
importance  to  him  to  become  his  own.  All  this 
present  concern  for  her  comfort  talked  far  more 
plainly  than  words. 

This  time,  Mrs.  Wade  admitted  bravely  to  herself 
that  her  jealousy  was  not  for  Billy.  It  would  have 
been  far  easier  for  her  if  she  had  known  that  Martin 
was  thinking  of  their  coming  guest  as  he  had  last 
seen  her  thirteen  years  before.  He  realized,  thor 
oughly,  that  she  must  have  grown  up,  but  before 
his  mental  eyes  there  still  danced  the  roguish  little 
girl  he  had  held  so  tenderly  in  his  arms  and  had  so 
longed  to  protect  and  cherish. 

He  experienced  a  distinct  sense  of  shock,  there 
fore,  when,  tall,  slender  and  smartly  dressed,  Rose 
stepped  off  the  train  and,  throwing  her  arms  impul 
sively  around  his  neck,  gave  him  an  affectionate  kiss. 
The  feel  of  those  soft,  warm  lips  lingered  strangely, 


DUST  IN   HIS   EYES  139 

setting  his  heart  to  pounding  as  he  guided  her  down 
the  platform. 

"Uncle  Martin,  you  haven't  changed  a  bit!"  she 
exclaimed  joyously.  "I  was  wondering  if  I'd  rec 
ognise  you  —  imagine!  Somehow,  I  thought  thir 
teen  years  would  make  a  lot  of  difference,  but  you 
don't  look  a  day  older." 

"You  little  blarney,"  he  smiled,  pleased  neverthe 
less.  "Well,  here  we  are,"  and  he  stopped  before  his 
fine  Cadillac. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Martin,"  gasped  Rose  ecstatically. 
"What  a  perfectly  gorgeous  car!  I  thought  all 
farmers  were  supposed  to  have  Fords." 

They  laughed  happily  together. 

"It's  the  best  in  these  parts,"  he  admitted  com 
placently. 

"It's  too  wonderful  to  think  that  it  is  really  yours. 
Oh,  Uncle  Martin,  do  you  suppose  you  could  ever 
teach  me  to  drive  it?" 

"It  takes  a  good  deal  of  strength  to  shift  the  gears, 
but  you  can  have  a  try  at  it  anyway,  tomorrow." 

"Oh-h-h!"  she  exulted,  slipping  naturally  into 
their  old  comradeship. 

Martin  took  her  elbow  as  he  helped  her  into  the 
car.  The  firm  young  flesh  felt  good  —  it  was  hard 
to  let  go.  His  thumb  and  under  finger  had  pressed 
the  muscles  slightly  and  they  had  moved  under  his 


140  DUST 

touch.  His  hand  trembled  a  bit.  The  grace  with 
which  she  stepped  up  gave  him  another  thrill.  He 
was  struck  with  her  trim  pump,  and  the  several 
inches  of  silk  stocking  that  flashed  before  his  eyes,  so 
unaccustomed  to  noticing  dainty  details,  gave  him  a 
mingled  sensation  of  delight  and  embarrassment. 
It  had  been  many  a  day,  many  a  year,  since  he  had 
consciously  observed  his  wife.  She  was  too  useful 
for  him  to  permit  himself  to  be  influenced  by  ques 
tions  of  beauty  into  underrating  her  value,  and  he 
was  a  respectable  husband,  if  not  a  kind  one.  They 
had  jogged  on  so  long  together  that  he  would  have 
said  he  had  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  her  appearance. 
But  suddenly  he  felt  that  he  could  not  continue  to 
endure,  for  another  day,  the  sight  of  the  spreading, 
flat  house-slippers  which,  because  of  her  two  hun 
dred  and  forty  pounds  and  frequently  rheumatic 
feet,  she  wore  about  her  work.  Moreover,  it  was 
forcibly  borne  in  upon  him  just  what  a  source  of 
irritation  they  had  been.  And  they  were  only  as  a 
drop  in  the  bucket!  Well,  such  thoughts  did  no  one 
any  good.  Thank  heaven,  from  now  on  he  would 
have  Rose  to  look  at. 

They  settled  down  beside  each  other  in  the  front 
seat  and  he  was  aware  that  her  lovely  eyes,  so  violet- 
blue  and  ivory-white,  were  studying  him  admiringly. 
Here  was  a  man,  she  was  deciding,  who  for  his  age 


DUST  IN   HIS   EYES  141 

was  the  physical  superior  of  any  she  had  ever  met. 
He  was  clearly  one  of  those  whom  toil  did  not  bend, 
and  while,  she  concluded  further,  he  might  be  taken 
for  all  of  his  fifty-four  years  it  would  be  simply  be 
cause  of  his  austere  manner. 

Martin  sustained  her  scrutiny  until  they  were  well 
out  of  Fallon  and  speeding  along  on  a  good  level 
road.  Then  with  a  teasing  "turn  about's  fair  play," 
he,  too,  took  a  frank  look,  oddly  stirred  by  the  so 
phisticated  touches  which  added  so  subtly  to  her 
natural  beauty.  From  her  soft,  thick  brown  hair 
done  up  cleverly  in  the  latest  mode  and  her  narrow 
eyebrows  arched,  oh,  so  carefully,  and  penciled  with 
such  skill,  to  that  same  trim  provocative  pump  and 
disconcerting  flash  of  silk-clad  ankle,  Rose  had  dash. 
Hers  was  that  gift  of  style  which  is  as  unmistakable 
as  the  gift  of  song  and  which,  like  it,  is  sometimes 
to  be  found  unexpectedly  in  any  village  or  small 
town. 

Martin  drank  in  every  detail  wonderingly,  with 
a  kind  of  awe.  All  his  life,  it  seemed  to  him,  for 
the  last  thirteen  years  positively,  he  had  known  that 
somewhere  there  must  be  just  such  a  woman  whose 
radiance  would  set  his  heart  beating  with  the  rap 
ture  of  this  moment  and  whose  moods  would  blend 
so  easily  with  his  own  that  she  would  seem  like  a 
very  part  of  himself.  And  here  she  was,  come  true, 


142  DUST 

sitting  right  beside  him  in  his  own  car.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  whole  life,  Martin  understood  the  mean 
ing  of  the  word  happiness.  It  gripped  and  shook  him 
and  made  his  heart  ache  with  a  delicious  pain. 

"It's  hard  to  believe/'  he  murmured,  "such  a  very 
small  girl  went  away  and  such  a  very  grown  up  little 
woman  has  come  back.  Let's  see  —  twenty  is  it? 
My,  you  make  me  feel  old  —  but  you  say  I  haven't 
changed  much." 

"You  haven't.  A  little  bit  of  gray,  a  number  of 
tiny  wrinkles  about  your  eyes"  —  the  tips  of  two 
dainty  fingers  touched  them  lightly — "and  you're 
a  bit  thinner  —  that's  all.  Why  you  look  so  good  to 
me,  Uncle  Martin,  I  could  fall  in  love  with  you  my 
self,  if  you  weren't  auntie's  husband." 

It  was  an  innocent  remark,  and  he  understood  it 
as  such,  but  its  effect  on  him  was  dynamic. 

"You  always  were  as  pretty  as  a  picture,"  he 
said  slowly,  his  nerves  tingling,  "if  a  farmer's 
opinion  is  worth  anything  in  that  line." 

This  was  twaddle,  of  course,  and  Martin  knew  it. 
Rather  it  was  the  city  person's  point  of  view  he  was 
inclined  to  belittle.  He  had  the  confidence  in  his 
superiority  that  comes  from  complete  economic  se 
curity  and  his  pride  of  place  was  even  more  deeply 
rooted.  Men  of  Martin's  class  who  are  able  to  gaze, 
in  at  least  one  direction,  as  far  as  eye  can  see  over 


DUST  IN  HIS   EYES  143 

their  own  land,  are  shrewd,  sharp,  intelligent,  and 
far  better  informed  on  current  events  and  phases 
of  thought  than  the  people  of  commercial  centers 
even  imagine.  There  is  nothing  of  the  peasant  about 
them.  Martin  knew  quite  well  that  dressed  in  his 
best  clothes  and  put  among  a  crowd  of  strange  busi 
ness  men  he  would  be  taken  for  one  of  their  own  — 
so  easy  was  his  bearing,  so  naturally  correct  his 
speech. 

Something  of  all  this  had  already  registered  in 
Rose's  mind.  "Come  on,  Uncle  Martin,"  she 
laughed,  "flatter  me.  I  just  love  it!" 

"Very  well,  then,  I'll  say  that  you've  come  back 
as  pretty  a  little  woman  as  ever  I've  laid  eyes  on." 

"Is  that  all?  Oh,  Uncle  Martin,  just  pretty?  The 
boys  usually  say  I'm  beautiful." 

"You  are  beautiful  —  as  beautiful  as  a  rose. 
That's  what  you  are,  a  red,  red  rose  of  Sharon  — 
with  your  dove's  eyes,  your  little  white  teeth  like  a 
flock  of  even  sheep  and  your  sweet,  pretty  lips  like 
a  thread  of  scarlet." 

"Why,  Uncle  Martin!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  a  trifle 
puzzled  by  the  intensity  of  his  quiet  tone,  and  stress 
ing  their  relationship  ever  so  lightly.  "You're  al 
most  a  poet." 

"You  mean  old  King  Solomon  was,"  he  retrieved 
himself  quickly.  "Don't  you  ever  read  the  Bible?" 


DUST 

"I  didn't  know  you  did!" 

"Oh,  your  old  Uncle  reads  a  little  of  everything/' 
he  returned  with  a  reassuring  commonplaceness  of 
manner.  He  was  thunderstruck  at  his  outburst. 
Never  had  he  had  occasion  to  talk  in  that  vein.  He 
remembered  how  blunt  he  had  been  with  the  older 
Rose  twenty  years  before  —  how  he  had  jumped  to 
the  point  at  the  start  and  landed  safely ;  clinched  his 
wooing,  as  he  had  since  realized,  by  calling  her  his 
Rose  of  Sharon,  and  now  he  was  saying  the  same 
thing  over  again,  but,  oh,  how  differently.  If  only 
he  were  thirty-four  today,  and  unmarried! 

"You  always  were  the  most  wonderful  person," 
beamed  Rose,  completely  at  her  ease  once  more,  "I 
used  to  simply  adore  you,  and  I'm  beginning  to 
adore  you  again." 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  what  a  glum  old 
grouch  I  really  am." 

"You  — a  grouch?  Oh,  Uncle  Martin!"  Her 
merry,  infectious  laugh  left  no  doubt  of  how  ridicu 
lous  such  a  notion  seemed. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  am." 

"Nonsense.    You'll  have  to  prove  it  to  me." 

"Ask  your  aunt  or  Bill;  they'll  tell  you."  The 
acrimony  in  his  tone  did  not  escape  her. 

"Then  they'll  have  to  prove  it  to  me,"  she  cor 
rected,  her  gaiety  now  a  trifle  forced.  Aunt  Rose 


DUST  IN  HIS   EYES  145 

never  had  appreciated  him,  was  her  quick  thought. 
Even  as  a  child  she  had  sensed  that. 

"How  are  they?"  she  added  quickly.  "Bill  must 
be  a  great  boy  by  this  time." 

"Only  a  few  inches  shorter  than  I  am,"  Martin 
answered  indifferently.  "He's  one  of  the  kind  who 
get  their  growth  early  —  by  the  time  he's  fifteen 
he'll  be  six  feet." 

"I'm  crazy  to  see  them." 

"Well,  there's  your  aunt  now,"  he  returned  drily 
as  they  drew  up  before  the  little  house  that  con 
trasted  so  conspicuously  with  the  fine  brick  silos  and 
imposing  barns.  Gleaming  with  windows,  they 
loomed  out  of  the  twilight,  reminding  one,  in  their 
slate-colored  paint,  of  magnificent  battleships. 

The  bright  glare  of  the  auto  picked  Mrs.  Wade 
out  for  them  as  mercilessly  as  a  searchlight.  Where 
she  had  been  stout  thirteen  years  before,  she  was 
now  frankly  fat.  Four  keen  eyes  noted  the  soft, 
cushiony  double  chin,  the  heavy  breasts,  ample 
stomach,  spreading  hips,  and  thick  shoulders, 
rounded  from  many  years  of  bending  over  her 
kitchen  table.  Kansas  wind,  Kansas  well-water 
and  Kansas  sun  had  played  their  usual  havoc,  giving 
her  skin  the  dull  sand  color  so  common  in  the  Sun 
flower  State.  She  had  come  from  her  cooking  and 
she  was  hot,  beads  of  sweat  trickling  from  the  deep 


146  DUST 

folds  of  her  neck.  Withal,  there  was  something  so 
comfortable  and  motherly  about  her,  the  kind,  wise 
eyes  behind  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  were  so  misty 
with  welcome  and  unspoken  thoughts  of  the  dear 
mother  Rose  had  lost,  that  the  girl  went  out  to  her 
sincerely  even  as  she  marvelled  that  the  same  years 
on  the  same  farm  which  had  given  one  person  added 
polish  and  had  made  him  even  more  good  looking 
than  ever,  could  have  changed  another  so  completely 
and  turned  her  into  such  a  toil-scarred,  frumpy, 
oldish  woman.  Why,  when  she  had  been  talking 
with  Uncle  Martin  he  had  seemed  no  older  than 
herself  —  well,  not  quite  that,  of  course,  but  she 
had  just  forgotten  about  his  age  altogether  —  until 
she  saw  Aunt  Rose.  No  wonder  whenever  he  spoke 
of  his  wife  every  intonation  told  how  little  he  loved 
her.  How  could  he  care  any  more  —  that  way? 

Rose's  first  look  of  astonishment  and  her  darting 
glance  in  his  own  direction  were  not  lost  on  Martin. 
With  an  imperceptible  smile,  he  accepted  the  unin 
tended  compliment,  but  he  felt  a  pang  when  he 
noticed  that  to  her  Aunt  went  the  same  affectionate, 
impetuous  embrace  that  she  had  given  to  him  at  the 
station. 

"You're  losing  your  head,"  he  told  himself  sternly, 
driving  into  the  garage,  where,  stopping  his  engine, 
he  continued  to  sit  motionless  it  the  wheel.  "That 


DUST   IN   HIS   EYES  147 

ought  to  be  a  lesson  to  you;  she's  just  naturally 
warm-hearted  and  loving.  Always  was.  You're  no 
more  to  her  than  anybody  else.  Well,  there's  no 
fool  like  an  old  fool."  Yet,  deeper  than  his  admitted 
thought  was  the  positive  conviction  that  already 
something  was  up  between  them.  If  not,  why  this 
excitement  and  wild  happiness?  To  be  sure,  nothing 
had  been  said  —  really.  It  had  all  been  so  light. 
Rose  was  just  a  bit  of  a  born  flirt.  But  he,  having 
laughed  at  love  all  his  life,  loved  her  deeply,  des 
perately.  Well,  so  much  the  worse  for  himself  — 
it  couldn't  lead  anywhere.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  his 
logic  he  knew  that  something  was  going  to  happen. 
Hang  it  all  —  just  what?  He  was  afraid  to  answer 
his  own  question ;  not  because  of  any  dread  of  what 
his  wife  might  do  —  he  was  conscious  only  of  a  new, 
cold,  impersonal  hatred  toward  her  because  she  stood 
between  him  and  his  Rose ;  nor  was  it  qualms  about 
his  ability  to  win  the  girl's  heart.  Already,  despite 
his  inexperience  with  love  technique,  he  was,  in  some 
mysterious  manner,  making  progress.  The  com 
munity —  his  position  in  it?  This  was  food  for 
thought  certainly,  but  it  was  not  what  worried  him. 
Then  why  this  feeling  of  dismay  when  he  wanted  to 
be  only  glad? 

The  question  was  still  unanswered  when  he  finally 
left  the  garage.  With  all  his  powers  of  introspection, 


148  DUST 

he  had  not  yet  fathomed  the  fact  that  it  was  a 
fear  of  his  own,  until  now  utterly  unsuspected,  ca 
pacity  for  recklessness.  Heretofore,  he  had  been  able 
to  count  on  the  certainty  that  his  best  judgment 
would  govern  all  his  actions.  Now,  he  felt  himself 
clutching,  almost  frantically,  at  the  hard  sense  of 
proportion  that  never  before  had  so  much  as  threat 
ened  to  desert  him.  He  went  about  his  chores  in 
a  grave,  automatic  way,  absorbed  in  anything  but 
agriculture.  Hardly  ever  did  he  pass  through  his 
barn  without  paying  homage  to  his  own  progressive- 
ness  and  oozing  approval  of  the  mechanical  milker, 
driven  by  his  own  electrical  dynamo,  the  James  Way 
stanchions  with  electric  lights  above,  the  individual 
drinking  fountains  at  the  head  of  each  cow,  the  cork- 
brick  floors,  the  scrupulously  white- washed  walls, 
and  the  absence  of  odor,  with  the  one  exception  of 
sweet,  fermented  silage.  But,  tonight,  he  was  not 
seeing  these  symbols  of  material  superiority.  In 
stead  he  was  thinking  of  a  girl  with  eyes  as  soft  as 
a  dove's,  lips  like  a  thread  of  scarlet  and  small  white 
teeth  as  even  as  a  flock  of  his  own  Shropshire  sheep. 
What  else  did  that  old  King  Solomon  say?  God 
Almighty,  he  thought,  there  was  a  man  who  under 
stood  !  He'd  try  to  get  a  chance  to  reread  that  Song 
of  Songs  that  was  breaking  his  own  heart  with  its 
joy  and  its  sadness. 


DUST   IN   HIS   EYES  149 

His  reverie  was  broken  abruptly  by  the  jangling 
supper-bell.  When  he  reached  the  back  door  Bill 
was  already  at  the  table  and  Rose,  in  a  simple  gown 
that  brought  out  the  appealing  lines  of  her  slim 
young  body,  was  deftly  helping  his  wife  in  the  final 
dishing  up.  As  Martin  stood  a  moment,  looking  in 
at  the  bright  scene  and  listening  to  the  happy 
chatter,  he  heard  her  ask  if  he  had  got  her  a  job.  At 
sight  of  him  she  cried  excitedly:  "Oh,  Uncle  Martin! 
You  can't  think  how  I  adore  my  beautiful  room! 
And  Bill  says  it  was  you  who  first  thought  of  build 
ing  it  for  me.  You  old  darling !  You  and  Aunt  Rose 
are  the  best  people  in  the  whole  wide  world.  How 
can  I  ever  thank  you?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  he  smiled,  "forget  all  about  that 
job  and  just  stay  around  here  and  make  us  all  young. 
Time  enough  to  work  when  you  have  to." 

Mrs.  Wade  noticed  how  Bill's  eyes  widened  at 
these  words,  so  unlike  his  father,  and  soon  she  was 
acutely  aware  of  her  husband's  marked  agreeable- 
ness  whenever  he  directed  his  conversation  toward 
Rose.  He  even  tried  to  include  his  son  and  herself 
in  this  new  atmosphere,  but  with  each  remark  in 
their  direction  his  manner  changed  subtly.  Toward 
herself,  in  particular,  his  feelings  were  too  deep  for 
him  to  succeed  in  belying  them. 

As  the  meal  progressed,  she  realized  that  her  dim 


150  DUST 

forebodings  were  fast  materializing  into  a  certain 
danger.  Unless  she  acted  promptly  this  slip  of  a 
girl  was  going  to  affect,  fundamentally,  all  their 
lives.  Already,  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  been 
amongst  them  a  long  time  and  had  colored  the  fu 
ture  of  them  all.  Mrs.  Wade  understood  far  better 
than  her  husband  would  have  supposed  that,  in  his 
own  way,  his  married  life  had  been  as  starved  as 
her  own ;  oh,  far  more  so,  for  she  had  her  boy.  And 
while  it  was  not  at  all  likely,  it  was  not  wholly 
impossible  that  he  might  seek  a  readjustment.  It 
seemed  far-fetched  for  her  to  sit  thus  and  feel  that 
drama  was  entering  their  hard  lives  when  nothing 
had  really  happened,  but  nevertheless  —  she  knew. 
As,  outwardly  so  calm,  she  speculated  with  tumbled 
thoughts  on  how  it  might  end,  she  tried  to  analyze 
why  it  was  that  the  prospect  of  a  shake-up  filled  her 
with  such  a  sense  of  disaster.  Surely,  it  was  not  be 
cause  of  any  reluctance  to  separate  from  Martin. 
Her  life  would  be  far  easier  if  they  went  their  own 
ways.  With  Bill,  she  could  make  a  home  anywhere, 
one  that  was  far  more  real,  in  a  house  from  which 
broken  promises  did  not  sound  as  from  a  trumpet. 
Ashes  of  resentment  still  smouldered  against  Martin 
because  of  that  failure  of  his  to  play  fair.  She  re 
called  the  years  during  which  she  had  helped  him 
to  earn  with  never  an  unexpected  pleasure; 


DUST   IN   HIS   EYES  151 

reflected  with  bitterness  that  never,  since  they  had 
cast  their  lives  together,  had  he  urged  her  to  indulge 
in  any  sweet  little  extravagance,  though  he  had 
denied  himself  nothing  that  he  really  wished.  It 
was  no  riddle  to  her,  as  it  had  been  to  her  niece 
earlier  in  the  evening,  why  the  same  hard  work  had 
dealt  so  benignly  with  Martin  and  so  uncharitably 
with  herself.  She  comprehended  only  too  well  that 
it  was  not  that  alone  which  had  crushed  her.  It 
was  his  ceaseless  domination  over  her,  the  utter  sub 
jugation  of  her  will,  her  complete  lack  of  freedom. 
She  glanced  across  the  table  at  him,  astounded  by 
his  hearty  laugh  in  response  to  one  of  Rose's  sallies. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  it  could  be  really  Martin's. 
It  had  such  a  ring  and  came  out  so  easily  as  if  he 
were  more  inclined  to  merriment  than  to  silence. 
Usually,  he  seemed  made  of  long  strips  of  thin  steel, 
but  under  the  inspiration  of  Rose's  presence  he  had 
become  animated,  brisk,  interesting.  No  wonder  she 
was  being  drawn  to  him. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  withheld  from  his  wife  a  secret 
alchemy  that  had  kept  him  handsome  and  attrac 
tive,  as  compelling  as  when  he  had  come  in  search 
of  herself  so  long  ago.  And  now  that  the  last  vestige 
of  her  own  bloom  was  gone,  he  was  laughing  at  her, 
inwardly,  as  a  cunning  person  does  who  plays  a 
malicious  trick  on  a  simpler,  more  trusting,  soul. 


152  DUST 

Only  it  had  taken  twenty  years  to  spring  the  point 
of  this  one.  Hatred  welled  in  her  heart;  a  sad, 
weary  hatred  that  knew  no  tears.  She  wished  that 
she  might  hurt  him  as  he  had  hurt  her.  Yet,  with 
her  usual  honesty,  she  presently  admitted  how  easy 
it  would  be  for  this  malevolence  to  melt  away  —  a 
word,  a  look,  a  gesture  from  Martin  and  the  heart 
in  her  would  flood  with  forgiveness;  but  the  look 
did  not  come,  the  word  was  unuttered. 

He  was  squandering,  she  continued  to  observe, 
sufficient  evidence  of  his  interest  at  the  feet  of  this 
child  who  never  would  have  missed  it,  while  she, 
herself,  who  could  have  lifted  mountains  from  her 
breast  with  one  tenth  of  this  appreciation,  was  left, 
as  she  always  had  been  left,  without  the  love  her 
being  craved,  the  love  of  a  mate,  rising  full  and 
strong  to  meet  her  own.  It  was  a  yearning  that  the 
most  cherished  of  children  could  never  satisfy  and 
as  she  watched  Martin  and  Rose  her  position  seemed 
to  her  to  be  that  of  a  hungry  pauper,  brought  to 
the  table  of  a  rich  gourmand,  there  to  look  on  help 
lessly  while  the  other  toyed  carelessly  with  the 
precious  morsels  of  which  she  was  in  such  extreme 
need.  And  what  rankled  was  that  these  thoughts 
were  futile,  that  too  much  water  had  run  under  the 
bridge,  that  it  was  her  lot  in  Martin's  life  merely  to 
accept  what  was  offered  her.  She  knew  that  the 


DUST  IN   HIS   EYES  153 

marks  of  her  many  hours  of  suppressed  anguish, 
thousands  of  days  of  toil  and  long  series  of  disap 
pointments  were  thick  upon  her.  She  realized,  too, 
how  ironical  it  was  that  with  all  her  work  she  should 
have  grown  to  be  so  ungainly  although  Martin  re 
tained  the  old  magnetism  of  his  gorgeous  physique. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  if  he  chose,  he  could  still 
hold  a  woman's  devotion.  Yes,  for  him  there  was 
an  open  road  from  this  gray  monotony,  if  he  had  the 
will  and  the  courage  to  escape. 

Suddenly,  she  found  herself  wondering  what  effect 
all  this  would  have  on  Bill.  She  stole  a  surreptitious 
glance  at  him,  but  he,  too,  seemed  to  have  been 
caught  up  by  Rose's  gay,  good  humor.  Mrs.  Wade 
sighed  as  she  remembered  how  everyone  had  flocked 
around  Norah.  Rose  had  inherited  her  mother's 
charm.  Such  women  were  a  race  apart.  They  could 
no  more  be  held  responsible  for  trying  to  please  than 
a  flower  for  exhaling  its  fragrance.  At  what  a  lovely 
moment  of  life  she  was!  Small  wonder  that  Martin 
was  captivated,  but  not  even  the  shadow  of  harm 
must  fall  on  that  fresh  young  spirit  while  she  was 
under  their  roof.  If  things  went  much  further  she 
would  have  it  out  with  him.  And  this  decision 
reached,  Mrs.  Wade  felt  her  usual  composure  gradu 
ally  return,  nor  did  it  again  desert  her  during  the 
long  evening  through  which  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
her  husband  must  be  some  stranger. 


VII 
MARTIN  BATTLES   WITH  DUST 


VII 

MARTIN  BATTLES  WITH  DUST 

THE  human  animal  is  a  strange  spectacle  to 
behold,  let  alone  comprehend.  Not  infre 
quently  he  goes  along  for  years  developing 
a  state  of  mind,  a  consistent  attitude,  and  then 
having  got  it  thoroughly  established  does  something 
in  distinct  contradiction  to  it.  Martin  had  never 
cared  for  music,  but  when  one  evening,  a  little  more 
than  a  week  after  Rose's  arrival,  she  suggested,  with 
a  laughing  lilt,  her  fondness  for  it,  he  agreed  that 
he  had  missed  it  in  his  home  and,  to  Bill's  and  Mrs. 
Wade's  unbelieving  surprise,  dwelt  at  length  upon 
his  enjoyment  of  Fallon's  band  and  his  longing  to 
blow  a  cornet.  A  little  later,  finding  an  excuse  to 
leave,  he  drove  into  town  on  a  mission  so  foreign  to 
his  iron-clad  character  that  it  seemed  to  cry  against 
his  every  instinct,  but  which,  for  all  that,  he  did  with 
such  simplicity  as  to  indicate  that  it  was  the  most 
natural  step  imaginable.  He  actually  bought  a  two- 
hundred-dollar  mahogany  Victrola  and  an  assort 
ment  of  records,  bringing  both  home  with  him  in 

157 


158  DUST 

his  car  and,  assisted  eagerly  by  Bill,  carrying  them 
into  the  front  room  with  an  air  that  said  it  was  a 
purchase  he  had  been  intending  to  make  for  a  long 
time.  Rose  rewarded  him  with  her  bubbling  delight 
and  her  aunt  noticed  with  an  odd  constriction  about 
her  heart  how  Bill  revelled  at  last  in  the  new  treas 
ure,  until  now  so  hopelessly  coveted.  Martin  had 
never  shone  to  better  advantage  than  this  evening 
as  he  helped  select  and  put  on  different  pieces,  lend 
ing  himself  to  the  mood  of  each.  It  was  while  a 
foot-stirring  dance  was  on  that  Rose  asked  sud 
denly  : 

"Oh,  Uncle  Martin,  do  you  know  how?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "You'll  have  to  teach  me  to 
square  up  for  learning  to  drive  the  car." 

"That's  a  bargain;  and  I'll  teach  Bill  too,"  she 
added  with  native  tact.  But  Mrs.  Wade,  ill  at  ease 
in  her  own  parlor,  caught  the  afterthought  quality 
of  Rose's  tone.  There  was  no  question  but  that  it 
was  for  Martin  she  sparkled,  sweet  and  spontaneous 
as  she  was.  Decidedly,  the  time  had  come  when 
lefinite  action  should  not  be  delayed. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  they  finally 
broke  up  and  husband  and  wife  found  themselves 
alone  in  their  own  room.  As  they  undressed,  Mrs. 
Wade  acted  nervously,  confused  as  to  how  to  begin, 
while  Martin  whistled  lightly  and  kept  time  by  a 


MARTIN    BATTLES    WITH    DUST       159 

slight  bobbing  of  his  head.  She  shot  a  meaning  look 
in  his  direction. 

"You  seem  happy,  don't  you?" 

He  stopped  whistling  instantly  and  assumed  his 
more  normal  look  of  set  sternness.  This  was  the 
man  she  knew  and  she  preferred  him  that  way, 
rather  than  buoyant  because  of  some  other  woman, 
even  though  that  other  was  as  lovable  and  innocent 
of  any  deliberate  mischief  as  her  niece.  Not  that 
she  was  jealous  so  much  as  she  was  hurt.  When  a 
woman  has  fortified  herself,  after  years  of  the  ex 
istence  to  which  Mrs.  Wade  had  submitted,  with 
the  final  conviction  that  undoubtedly  her  husband's 
is  a  nature  that  cannot  be  other  than  it  is,  and  then 
learns  there  are  emotional  potentialities  not  yet 
plumbed,  not  to  mention  a  capacity  for  pleasant 
comradeship  of  which  he  has  never  vouchsafed  her 
an  inkling,  she  finds  herself  being  ground  between 
the  millstones  of  an  aching  admission  of  her  own 
deficiencies  and  a  tattered,  but  rebellious,  pride. 

Martin,  when  her  remark  concerning  his  apparent 
happiness  had  registered,  let  his  answer  be  a  sober 
inspection  of  the  garment  he  had  just  removed. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  can  talk  to  me  now  after 
such  a  strenuous  evening,"  she  went  on  more  em 
phatically.  And  as  he  maintained  his  silence,  she 
continued  with :  "Oh,  don't  think  I'm  blind,  Martin 


160  DUST 

Wade.  I  know  exactly  how  far  this  has  gone  and 
I  know  how  far  it  can  go." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean  —  the  way 
you  are  behaving  toward  Rose." 

"Are  you  trying  to  imply  that  I'm  carrying  on 
with  her?" 

"I  certainly  am.  I'm  not  angry,  Martin.  I  never 
was  calmer  than  I  am  right  now,  and  I  don't  intend 
to  say  things  just  for  the  sake  of  saying  them.  I 
only  want  you  to  know  that  I  have  eyes,  and  that  I 
don't  want  to  be  made  a  fool  of." 

To  her  surprise,  Martin  came  over  to  her  and, 
looking  at  her  steadily,  returned  with  amazing  can- 
didness:  "I'm  not  going  to  lie  to  you.  You're  per 
fectly  welcome  to  know  what's  in  my  mind.  I  love 
her  with  every  beat  of  my  heart  —  she  has  brought 
something  new  into  my  life,  something  sacred  — 
you've  always  thought  I  cared  for  nothing  but  work, 
that  all  I  lived  for  was  to  plan  and  scheme  how  to 
make  money.  Haven't  you?  I  don't  blame  you. 
It's  what  I've  always  believed,  but  tonight  I've 
learned  something."  Mrs.  Wade  could  see  his  blood 
quicken.  "She  has  been  in  this  house  only  a  few 
days  and  already  I  am  alive  with  a  new  fire.  It 
seems  as  if  these  hours  are  the  only  ones  in  which 
I  have  ever  really  lived  —  nothing  else  matters. 


MARTIN  BATTLES  WITH  DUST         161 

Nothing!  If  there  could  be  the  slightest  chance  of 
my  winning  her  love,  of  making  her  feel  as  I  am 
feeling  now,  I'd  build  my  world  over  again  even  if 
I  had  to  tear  all  of  the  old  one  down."  Martin  was 
now  talking  to  himself,  oblivious  to  his  wife's  pres 
ence,  indifferent  to  her.  "Happiness  is  waiting  for 
me  with  her,  with  my  little  flower." 

"Your  Rose  of  Sharon?"    Her  tone  was  biting. 

"If  only  I  could  say  that!  My  Rose  of  Sharon!" 
It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Wade  that  the  very  room  quivered 
with  his  low  cry  that  was  almost  a  groan.  "I  know 
what  you're  thinking,"  he  went  on,  "but  you  know 
I  have  never  loved  you.  You  knew  it  when  I 
married  you,  you  must  have."  The  twisting  agony 
of  it  —  that  he  could  make  capital  out  of  the  very 
crux  of  all  her  suffering.  "I  have  never  deceived 
you  and  I  never  intend  to.  My  life  with  you 
hasn't  been  a  Song  of  Solomon,  but  I'm  not  com 
plaining." 

"You're  not  complaining!  I  hope  I  won't  start 
complaining,  Martin." 

"WTell,  now  you  know  how  I  feel.  I'll  go  on  with 
the  present  arrangement  between  us,  but  I'm  play 
ing  square  with  you  —  it's  because  there's  no  hope 
for  me.  If  I  thought  she  cared  for  me,  I  would  go 
to  her,  right  now,  tonight,  and  pour  out  my  heart 
to  her,  wife  or  no  wife.  Oh,  Rose,  have  pity!  It 


162  DUST 

can't  do  you  any  harm  if  I  drink  a  little  joy  —  don't 
spoil  her  faith  in  me!  Don't  frighten  her  away.  I 
can't  bear  the  thought  of  her  going  out  into  the 
world  to  work.  She's  like  a  gentle  little  doe  feeding 
on  lilies  —  she  doesn't  dream  of  the  pitfalls  ahead  of 
her.  And  she  will  never  know  —  she  doesn't  even 
suspect  how  I  feel  towards  her.  She  will  meet  some 
young  fellow  in  town  and  marry.  I'm  too  old  for 
her  —  but  Rose,  you  don't  understand  what  it  means 
to  me  to  have  her  in  the  same  house,  to  know  that 
she  is  sleeping  so  near,  so  beautiful,  so  ready  for 
love;  that  when  I  wake  up  tomorrow  she  will  still 
be  here." 

Disarmed  and  partly  appeased  by  the  frankness 
of  his  confession,  Mrs.  Wade  sat  silently  taking  in 
each  word,  studying  him  with  wet  eyes,  her  lips  al 
most  blue,  her  breath  a  little  short.  The  fire  in  his 
voice,  the  reality  of  his  strange,  terrible  love,  the 
eyes  that  gazed  so  sadly  and  so  unexpectantly  into 
space,  the  hands  that  seemed  to  have  shed  their 
weight  of  toil  and  clutched,  too  late,  for  the  bright 
flowers  of  happiness  —  all  filled  her  with  compas 
sion.  Never  had  he  looked  so  splendid.  He  seemed, 
in  casting  off  his  thongs,  to  have  taken  on  some  of 
the  Herculean  quality  of  his  own  magnificent  ges 
ture.  It  was  as  if  their  barnyard  well  had  burst  into 
a  mighty,  high-shooting  geyser.  To  her  dying  day 


MARTIN    BATTLES    WITH   DUST       163 

would  she  remember  that  surge  of  passion.  To  have 
met  it  with  anger  would  have  been  of  as  little  avail 
as  the  stamp  of  a  protesting  foot  before  the  tremors 
of  an  earthquake. 

She  offered  him  the  comforting  directness  which 
she  might  have  given  Bill.  "I  didn't  know  you  felt 
so  deeply,  Martin.  Life  plays  us  all  tricks;  it's 
played  many  with  me,  and  it's  playing  one  of  its 
meanest  with  you,  for  whatever  happens  you  are 
going  to  suffer  —  far  more  than  I  am.  You  can 
believe  it  or  not,  but  I'm  sorry." 

Martin  felt  oddly  grateful  to  her;  he  had  not  ex 
pected  this  sense  of  understanding.  She  might  have 
burst  into  wild  tears.  Instead,  she  was  pitying  him. 
More  possessed  of  his  usual  immobility,  he  re 
marked  : 

"I  must  be  a  fool,  a  great,  pathetic  fool.  I  look 
into  a  girl's  eyes  and  immediately  see  visions.  I  say 
a  few  words  to  her  and  she  is  kind  enough  to  say  a 
few  to  me  and  I  see  pictures  of  new  happiness.  I 
should  have  more  sense.  I  don't  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  me." 

Although  countless  answers  leaped  to  his  wife's 
tongue  she  made  none  but  the  cryptic:  "Well,  it's  no 
use  to  discuss  it  any  more  tonight.  We  both  need 
rest."  But  all  the  while  that  she  was  undressing 
with  her  usual  sure,  swift  movements,  and  after  she 


164  DUST 

had  finally  slipped  between  the  sheets,  her  mind 
was  racing. 

She  was  soon  borne  so  completely  out  on  the  cur 
rent  of  her  own  thoughts  that  she  forgot  Martin's 
actual  presence.  She  remembered  as  if  it  were  yes 
terday,  the  afternoon  he  came  to  the  office  and  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  She  wondered  anew,  as  she  had 
wondered  a  thousand  times,  if  anything  other  than 
a  wish  for  a  housekeeper  had  prompted  him.  She 
remembered  her  misgivings  —  how  she  had  read  into 
him  qualities  which  she  had  believed  all  these  years 
were  not  there.  But  hadn't  her  intuition  been  justi 
fied,  after  all,  by  the  very  man  she  had  seen  tonight? 
Yes,  her  first  feeling,  that  he  was  something  finer, 
still  in  the  rough,  had  been  correct.  She  had  thought 
it  was  his  shyness,  his  unaccustomedness  to  women 
that  had  made  him  such  a  failure  as  a  lover  —  and 
all  the  while  it  had  been  simply  that  she  was  not 
the  right  woman.  When  love  touched  him,  he  be 
came  a  veritable  white  light. 

All  these  years  when  he  had  been  so  cold,  so  hard 
toward  her,  it  simply  was  because  he  disliked  her. 
She  remembered  the  day  she  was  hurt,  and  the  night 
her  first  baby  came.  Martin's  brutality  even  now 
kindled  in  her  a  dull  blazing  anger,  and  as  she 
realized  what  depths  of  feeling  were  in  him,  his 
callousness  seemed  intensified  an  hundred-fold. 


MARTIN    BATTLES    WITH    DUST       165 

Well,  she  was  having  her  revenge.  All  his  life  he 
had  thwarted  her,  stolen  from  her,  used  her  as  one 
could  not  use  even  a  hired  hand,  worked  her  more 
as  a  slave-driver  hurries  his  underlings  that  profits 
may  mount;  now,  by  her  mere  existence,  she  was 
thwarting  him.  She  saw  him  again  as  he  had  flashed 
before  her  when  he  had  talked  of  Rose  and  she  ad 
mitted  bitterly  to  herself,  what  in  her  heart  she  had 
known  all  along  —  that  if  Martin  could  have  loved 
her,  she  could  have  worshipped  him.  Instead,  he 
had  slowly  smothered  her,  but  she  had  at  least  a  dig 
nity  in  the  community.  He  should  not  harm  that. 
If  they  were  unhappy,  at  least  no  one  knew  it.  Her 
pride  was  her  refuge.  If  that  were  violated  she  felt 
life  would  hold  no  sanctuary,  that  her  soul  would  be 
stripped  naked  before  the  world. 

But  why  was  she  afraid?  Didn't  Martin  have  his 
own  position  to  think  of?  What  if  he  had  said 
nothing  was  to  be  compared  to  his  new-found  love 
for  Rose.  What  stupidity  on  his  part  not  to  realize 
that  it  was  his  very  position,  power  and  money  that 
commanded  her  respect.  Did  he  command  anything 
else  from  her?  Mrs.  Wade  reviewed  the  evening. 
Yes,  response  had  been  in  Rose's  laugh,  in  every 
movement.  Hadn't  she  always  adored  Martin,  even 
as  a  tiny  girl?  Hadn't  there  always  been  some  mys 
tic  bond  between  them?  How  she  had  envied  them 


166  DUST 

then.  But  if  Martin  were  to  go  to  her  with  only 
his  love?  From  the  depths  of  her  observations  of 
people  she  took  comfort.  He  might  stir  his  lovely 
Rose  of  Sharon  to  the  uttermost,  had  he  been  free 
he  might  have  won  her  for  his  wife  —  but  would  it 
be  possible  for  fifty-four  to  hold  the  attention  of 
twenty  for  long  if  he  had  nothing  but  his  love  to 
offer? 

Such  thoughts  were  hurrying  through  her  heated 
mind  as  Martin  slowly  laid  himself  beside  her.  He 
said  nothing,  but  lost  himself  in  a  flood  of  ceaseless 
ponderings.  After  stretching  some  of  the  tiredness 
out  of  his  throbbing  muscles,  he  relaxed  and  lay 
quietly,  trying  to  recall  exactly  what  he  had  said. 
Did  his  wife  suspect  that  there  might  be  no  truth  in 
the  remark  that  Rose  would  never  know  how  he 
felt  toward  her?  At  moments  he  felt  that  the  girl 
already  divined  it,  again  he  was  not  so  sure.  It  was 
hard  to  be  certain,  but  the  more  he  thought  about 
it  the  more  hope  he  began  to  feel  that  she  would  yet 
be  wholly  his.  Her  admiration  and  trust  belonged 
to  him  now,  but  there  might  be  moral  scruples  which 
he  would  have  to  overcome.  There  would  be  the 
difficulty  of  convincing  her  that  she  would  be  doing 
her  aunt  no  wrong.  She  would  gam  courage,  how 
ever,  from  his  own  heedlessness.  That  same  daring 
which  he  had  just  shown  with  the  older  Rose  and 


MARTIN    BATTLES   WITH   DUST      167 

which  had  impressed  her  into  silence  would  even 
tually  move  his  flower  to  him.  He  had  thrown  down 
the  bars.  Secrecy  was  now  out  of  the  question  and 
it  was  well  that  he  was  moving  thus  in  the  open. 
Rose  might  shrink  at  first  from  the  plain-spoken- 
ness  of  the  situation,  but  this  phase  would  soon 
pass  and  then  the  fact  that  she  knew  he  was  not 
hiding  his  love  for  her  even  from  his  wife  would 
make  it  far  easier  to  press  his  suit  and  possibly  to 
bring  it  to  a  swift  consummation. 

He  must  win  her!  He  must.  He  had  been  mad 
to  admit  to  himself,  much  less  to  his  Rag-weed, 
that  there  was  any  doubt  of  this  outcome.  It  might 
take  a  few  more  days,  a  week,  not  longer  than  that. 
But  what  should  he  do  when  Rose  gave  the  message 
to  him?  Could  he  go  away  with  her?  This  bothered 
him  for  a  while.  Of  course,  he  would  have  to.  He 
could  not  send  his  wife  away.  The  community 
would  not  tolerate  this.  Martin  knew  his  neighbors. 
He  did  not  care  a  snap  for  their  good  opinion,  but 
he  realized  exactly  how  much  they  could  hurt  him 
if  he  violated  their  prejudices  beyond  a  certain 
point.  Fortunately,  there  are  millions  of  com 
munities  in  the  world.  This  one  would  rise  against 
him  and  denounce,  another  would  accept  them  as 
pleasant  strangers.  He  might  be  taken  for  Rose's 
father!  He  would  fight  this  with  tireless  care.  Yes, 


168  DUST 

he  would  have  to  go  away.  But  his  business  in 
terests—what  about  his  farm,  his  cattle,  his  ma 
chinery,  his  bank  stock,  his  mortgages,  his  municipal 
bonds?  How  wonderful  it  would  be  if  he  could  go 
with  her  to  the  station  — his  securities  in  a  grip, 
his  other  possessions  turned  into  a  bank  draft!  But 
this  woman  lying  at  his  side  —  the  law  gave  her  such 
a  large  share. 

Cataclysmic  changes  were  taking  place  in  the 
soul  of  Martin  Wade.  The  very  thing  which,  with 
out  being  able  to  name,  he  had  dreaded  a  short  week 
ago  in  the  garage,  was  hovering  over  him,  casting 
its  foreboding  shadow  of  material  destruction.  His 
whole  system  of  values  was  being  upset.  He  felt 
an  actual  revulsion  against  property.  What  was  it 
all  compared  to  his  Rose?  He  would  throw  it  at  his 
wife's  feet  — his  wife's  feet  and  Bill's.  Let  them 
take  every  penny  of  it  —  no,  not  every  penny.  He 
would  need  a  little  —  just  a  thousand  or  two  to  start 
with  and  then  the  rest  would  come  easily,  for  he 
knew  how  to  make  money.  And  how  liberal  that 
would  be. 

He  could  see  himself  as  he  would  go  forth  with 
Rose,  leaving  behind  the  woman  he  had  never  loved 
and  all  that  he  had  toiled  so  many  years  to  amass. 
It  seemed  fair  —  the  property  for  which  he  had 
lusted  so  mercilessly  left  for  the  woman  with  whom 


MARTIN    BATTLES    WITH    DUST       169 

he  had  lived  so  dully,  left  as  the  ransom  to  be  paid 
for  his  liberty.  So  he  and  his  Rose  of  Sharon  would 
walk  away  —  walk,  because  even  the  car  would  be 
surrendered  —  and  he  would  be  free  with  the  only 
woman  for  whom  he  had  ever  yearned. 

Would  she  be  happy  for  long?  His  pride  an 
swered  "yes,"  but  against  his  will  he  pictured  him 
self  being  dumped  ruthlessly  into  the  pitiless  sixties 
while  Rose  still  lingered  in  the  glorious  twenties. 
This  was  a  most  unpleasant  reflection  and  Martin 
preferred  to  dismiss  it.  That  belonged  to  tomorrow. 
He  would  wait  until  then  to  fight  tomorrow's  battles. 
His  mind  came  back  to  the  property  again.  Wasn't 
it  rather  impetuous  to  surrender  all?  Wouldn't  it 
be  unfair  to  Rose  to  be  so  generous  to  his  wife?  She 
had  Bill.  In  a  few  years  he  would  be  old  enough  to 
run  the  farm.  Until  then,  with  his  help  and  good 
hired  hands,  she  could  do  it  herself.  Why  not  leave 
it  and  the  goods  on  it  to  her  and  take  the  mortgages 
and  bonds  with  him?  Rose  was  joy.  He  could 
hold  her  more  securely  with  comforts  added  to  his 
great  love.  Her  happiness  had  to  be  thought  of, 
had  to  be  protected. 

He  could  tell  that  his  wife  was  still  awake.  He 
might  begin  to  talk  and  maybe  they  could  arrange 
a  settlement.  But  he  was  getting  too  tired  for  a 
discussion  that  might  invite  tears  and  even  a  fit  of 


170  DUST 

hysterics,  like  the  one  she  had  gone  through  before 
their  first  child  came  dead.  He  could  see  her  still 
as  she  looked  that  morning  in  the  barn  crying: 
"You'll  be  punished  for  this  some  day  —  you  will  — 
you  will.  You  don't  love  me,  but  some  time  you 
will  love  some  one.  Then  you'll  understand  what  it 
is  to  be  treated  like  this  — "  It  gave  him  the  creeps 
now  to  remember  it.  It  was  like  one  of  those  old 
incantations;  almost  like  a  curse.  What  if  some  day 
his  Rose  should  grow  to  be  as  indifferent,  feel  as 
little  tenderness  toward  him  as  he  had  felt  toward 
his  wife  at  that  moment.  The  pain  of  it  made  him 
break  out  into  a  fine  sweat.  But  he  hadn't  under 
stood.  What  had  he  understood  until  this  love  had 
come  into  his  life!  He  would  never  do  a  thing  as 
cruel  as  that  now.  Come  to  think  of  it,  the  older 
Rose  wasn't  acting  like  a  bad  sort.  But  then,  when 
it  came  to  a  show-down  she  might  not  be  so  mag 
nanimous  as  she  had  appeared  tonight. 

Mrs.  Wade  was  still  thinking.  She  also  was  meas 
uring  possibilities  and  clairvoyantly  sensing  what 
was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind.  •  She,  too,  was 
sure  that  Rose  would  capitulate  to  him.  She  felt 
a  deep  sympathy  for  the  girl.  Martin  had  said  it 
himself  —  he  was  too  old  for  her.  Her  happiness 
lay  with  youth.  And  yet,  how  could  one  be  so  cer 
tain?  Love  was  so  illusive,  so  capricious!  Did  it 


MARTIN    BATTLES    WITH    DUST       171 

really  bow  to  the  accident  of  years?  Had  she,  Rose 
Wade,  the  right  to  snatch  from  anyone's  hands  the 
most  precious  gift  of  life?  Wouldn't  she  have  sold 
her  very  soul,  at  one  time,  to  have  had  Martin  care 
for  her  like  this?  Oh,  if  the  child  were  wise  she 
would  not  hesitate!  She  would  drink  her  cup  of 
joy  while  it  was  held  out  to  her  brimming  full.  A 
strange  conclusion  for  a  staid  churchwoman  like 
Mrs.  Wade,  but  her  rich  humanity  transcended  all 
her  training.  She  wondered  if  there  could  be  any 
thing  in  the  belief  that  there  was  waiting  somewhere 
for  each  soul  just  one  other.  There  were  people, 
she  knew,  who  thought  that.  Rose  had  drawn  out 
all  that  was  finest  in  Martin  —  she  had  transformed 
him  into  a  lover,  and  if  she  wanted  the  man,  him 
self,  she  could  have  him.  But,  decided  his  wife,  he 
could  not  take  with  him  the  things  which  her  sweat 
and  blood  had  helped  to  create.  She  would  give  him 
a  divorce,  but  her  terms  would  be  as  brutal  as  the 
Martin  with  whom  she  had  lived  these  twenty  years, 
and  who  now  took  it  for  granted  that  she  would  let 
him  do  whatever  he  chose.  She  was  to  be  made  to 
step  aside,  was  she,  with  no  weapon  with  which  to 
strike  back  and  no  armor  with  which  to  protect  her 
self?  Well,  there  was  one  way  she  might  hit  him 

—  one.    She  would  strike  him  in  his  weakest  point 

—  his  belongings.    Yes,  Martin  Wade  might  leave 


172  DUST 

her  but  all  his  property  must  be  left  behind  —  every 
cent  of  it.  There  should  be  a  contract  to  that  effect; 
otherwise,  she  would  fight  as  only  a  frenzied  woman 
can  fight. 

The  two  of  them,  lying  there 'side  by  side  as 
quietly  as  if  in  death,  each  considered  the  issue 
settled.  She  would  let  him  go  without  his  property; 
Martin  would  leave  with  half  of  it.  And  through 
all  the  long  wordless  controversy,  their  little  Rose 
of  Sharon,  a  few  yards  away,  slept  as  only  a  tired 
child  can  sleep. 


VIII 

THE   DUST   SMOTHERS 


VIII 

THE  DUST  SMOTHERS 

WHEN  Martin  opened  his  eyes,  next  morn 
ing,  he  realized  with  a  start  that  he  had 
overslept,  which  was  a  new  experience  for 
one  whose  life  had  been  devoted  so  consistently  to 
hard  toil;  and  he  saw  with  a  sharper  start,  that  his 
wife,  who  always  got  up  about  a  half  hour  earlier 
than  himself,  was  not  even  yet  awake.  He  won 
dered  what  had  come  over  him  that  he  should  have 
committed  such  a  sin,  and  as  his  tired  mind  opened 
one  of  its  doors  and  let  the  confused  impressions 
flutter  out,  he  countenanced  a  luxury  as  unusual  as 
the  impulse  that  had  sent  him  townward  the 
evening  before  to  bring  home  the  Victrola.  Instead 
of  jumping  out  hastily  so  that  he  might  attend  to 
his  hungry,  bellowing  stock,  he  lay  quietly  mar 
shalling  the  new  incidents  of  his  life  into  a  parade 
which  he  ordered  to  march  across  the  low  ceiling. 

He  could  not  comprehend  what  the  tornado  had 
been  about.  There  had  been  so  little  on  which  to 
base  the  excitement  —  so  little  that  he  was  puzzled 

175 


176  DUST 

as  to  what  had  caused  the  scene  with  his  wife.  And 
as  he  reflected,  it  seemed  highly  unlikely  to  him  that 
he  would  ever  permit  himself  to  do  anything  that 
might  jeopardize  his  whole  life,  topple  over  the 
structure  that  decades  of  work  had  built.  Why,  it 
was  scarcely  less  than  suicidal  to  let  a  stranger  come 
into  his  heart  and  maybe  weaken  his  position.  He 
remembered  his  last  thought  before  falling  asleep. 
It  appeared  unutterably  rash,  though  when  hit 
upon,  it  had  been  a  decision  that  moderated  a  more 
extreme  action.  Now  he  realized  that  it  was  the 
very  acme  of  foolishness  deliberately  to  sacrifice  half 
his  fortune,  especially  the  farm  itself,  to  which  he 
had  given  so  many  years  of  complete  concentration. 
Certainly,  if  Rose  were  ready  to  be  his,  he  might 
not  hesitate  even  a  second ;  but  this  flower  was  still 
to  be  won  by  him,  and  this  morning,  aware  of  what 
scant  grounds  he  had  upon  which  to  venture  any 
forecasts,  he  felt  as  full  of  doubt  as  he  had  been  of 
confidence  last  night.  It  had  been  a  saddening  ex 
perience,  but  fortunate,  for  all  that,  inasmuch  as 
nothing  serious  had  come  of  it,  except  that  he  was 
greatly  sobered.  Martin  could  not  understand  that 
mysterious  something  which  had  risen  up  in  his 
nature  and  threatened  to  wreck  a  carefully-built  life. 
It  was  his  first  meeting  with  the  little  demon  that 
rebels  in  a  man  after  he  thinks  his  character  and  his 


THE   DUST   SMOTHERS  177 

reactions  thoroughly  established,  and  he  shuddered 
as  he  realized  how  close  the  strange  imp  had  pulled 
him  to  the  precipice.  Yesterday,  that  precipice  had 
seemed  a  new  paradise ;  now  it  was  a  yawning  chasm 
—  and  he  drew  back,  frightened. 

Cows,  horses,  sheep,  pigs,  chickens,  turkeys,  dogs, 
barn  cats  —  all  do  not  remain  patient  while  the  man 
who  owns  them  lies  in  bed  dreaming  dreams.  They 
wait  a  while  and  then  get  nervous.  The  many  mes 
sages  for  food  which  they  sent  to  Martin  forced  him 
to  spring  out  of  bed  and  hurry  to  them,  for  nothing 
is  as  unbearably  insistent  as  a  barn  and  yard  full 
of  living  things  clamoring  their  determination  to 
have  something  to  eat.  As  Martin  ran  to  stop  the 
bedlam,  he  saw  the  world  as  an  enormous,  empty 
stomach,  at  the  opening  of  which  he  stood,  hurling 
in  the  feed  as  fast  as  his  muscles  would  permit.  It 
was  all  there  was  to  farming  —  raising  crops  and 
then  shovelling  the  hay  and  the  grain  into  these 
stomachs.  Martin  stood  back  a  few  feet  and  with 
loving  eyes  watched  his  animals  enjoy  their  food. 
Here  were  the  creatures  he  loved.  The  fine  herd  of 
Holstein  cows  —  their  big  eyes  looked  at  him  with 
such  trust!  And  their  black  and  white  markings  — 
so  spick  and  span  with  shininess  because  he  threw 
salt  on  them  that  each  cow  might  lick  the  other 
clean  —  their  heavy  milk  veins,  great  udders,  and 


178  DUST 

backs  as  straight  as  a  die  —  all  appealed  to  his  sense 
of  the  beautiful.  "God  Almighty!"  he  thought,  "but 
they're  wonders!  There's  none  like  them  west  of 
Chicago."  The  mule  colts,  so  huge  and  handsome, 
and  oh,  so  knowing!  made  him  chuckle  his  pride 
and  satisfaction  in  a  muttered :  "Man's  creation,  are 
you,  you  fine  young  devils?  Well,  you're  a  credit, 
the  lot  of  you,  to  whoever  deserves  it."  His  eyes 
wandered  over  the  rest  of  his  stock,  swept  his  wide 
realm.  It  was  all  a  very  part  of  himself.  Yes,  here 
was  his  life  —  here  was  his  world.  It  would  be  the 
height  of  folly  to  leave  it. 

At  breakfast,  his  wife  ate  sullenly,  refusing  to  be 
drawn  into  the  conversation,  but  by  a  wise  com 
pression  of  her  lips  and  a  flicker  of  amusement  in 
her  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say:  "Oh,  if  only  you 
could  see  how  absurd  you  appear,"  she  contrived 
very  cleverly  to  render  Martin  miserably  self-con 
scious.  Hampered  by  this  new  and  unexpected 
feeling,  his  attempts  to  be  pleasant  fell  flat  and  he 
lapsed  into  his  old  grimness,  while  Rose,  eating 
quickly,  confined  her  remarks  to  her  determination 
to  go  to  town  in  search  of  a  job.  Had  Martin  not 
talked  as  he  had  to  his  wife  he  would  have  been 
able,  undoubtedly,  to  disregard  her  and  to  continue 
the  line  of  chatter  which  he  had  hit  upon  so  happily 
and  which  he  had  never  suspected  was  in  him.  But 


THE   DUST   SMOTHERS  179 

the  fact,  not  so  much  that  she  knew,  but  that  from 
this  vantage  point  of  knowledge  she  was  ridiculing 
him,  was  too  much  for  even  his  self-possession.  It- 
made  the  light  banter  impossible.  Especially,  as 
there  was  no  doubt  that  Rose  did  not  seem  anxious 
for  it. 

For  Martin  had  not  been  the  only  member  of  that 
household  who  had  held  early  communion  with  him 
self.  The  girl  had  sat  long  and  dreamily  at  her 
dressing  table  —  the  dainty  one  of  rich,  dark  ma 
hogany  that  Uncle  Martin's  thoughtfulness  had  pro 
vided.  It  seemed  unbelievable,  but  there  was  no 
use  pretending  she  was  mistaken  —  Uncle  Martin, 
Aunt  Rose's  husband,  was  falling  in  love  with  her. 
She  felt  a  little  heady  with  the  excitement  of  it.  He 
was  so  different  from  the  callow  youths  and  dapper 
fellows  who  had  heretofore  worshipped  at  her  shrine. 
There  was  something  so  imposing,  so  important 
about  him.  She  was  conscious  that  a  man  so  much 
older  might  not  appeal  to  many  girls  of  her  age,  but 
it  so  happened  that  he  did  appeal  to  her.  She  would 
be  able  to  have  everything  she  wished,  too  —  didn't 
she  know  how  good,  how  kind,  how  tender  he  could 
be.  And  her  heart  yearned  toward  him  —  he  was 
so  clearly  misunderstood,  unhappy.  But  what  about 
Aunt  Rose?  Well,  then,  why  had  she  let  herself  get 
to  be  so  ugly?  She  looked  as  if  the  greases  of  her 


180  DUST 

own  kitchen  stove  had  cooked  into  her  skin,  thought 
the  girl,  mercilessly.  Didn't  she  know  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  a  powder  puff?  Women  like  that  brought 
their  own  troubles  upon  themselves,  that's  what 
they  did.  And  she  was  an  old  prude,  too.  Anyone 
could  see  with  half  an  eye  that  she  didn't  like  the 
idea  of  Uncle  Martin  learning  to  dance  —  why,  she 
didn't  even  like  his  getting  the  Victrola  —  when  it 
was  just  what  both  he  and  Bill  had  been  wanting. 
But  for  all  that  she  was  her  aunt,  her  own  mother's 
sister  and,  poor  dear,  she  was  a  good  soul.  It  would 
probably  upset  her  awfully  and  besides,  oh  well,  it 
just  wasn't  right. 

Before  her  mirror  Rose  blushed  furiously,  quite 
ashamed  of  the  light  way  in  which  she  had  been 
leading  Uncle  Martin  on.  "But  I  haven't  said  one 
solitary  thing  auntie  couldn't  have  heard,"  she  justi 
fied  herself.  Oh,  well,  no  harm  had  been  done.  But 
she  mustn't  stay  here,  that  was  certain.  She 
wouldn't  say  so,  or  hurt  their  feelings,  for  she  wanted 
to  be  on  the  best  of  terms  with  them  always,  but 
she  would  stop  flirting  with  Uncle  Martin  and  just 
turn  him  back  into  a  dear  good  friend.  She  hoped 
she  was  clever  enough  to  do  that  much.  And  the 
dark-brown  curls  received  a  brushing  that  left  no 
doubt  of  the  vigor  of  her  decisions. 

She  insisted  that  she  go  to  Fallon  that  morning. 


THE   DUST   SMOTHERS  181 

"I've  been  here  eight  whole  days,  Uncle  Martin/' 
she  announced  firmly,  "eight  whole  days  and  haven't 
tried  to  get  a  thing.  It's  terrible,  isn't  it,  Aunt  Rose, 
how  lazy  I  am.  I'm  going  to  have  Bill  take  me  in 
right  straight  after  breakfast." 

"If  you're  so  set  on  it,  I'll  see  about  your  position 
this  afternoon,"  conceded  Martin  reluctantly. 
"We'll  drive  in  in  the  car." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Martin,"  she  coaxed  innocently,  "let 
me  try  my  luck  alone  first.  Bill  can  tell  me  who  the 
different  men  are  and  if  I  know  he's  waiting  for  me 
outside  in  the  buggy,  it  will  keep  me  from  being 
scared."  And  her  young  cousin,  only  too  pleased 
with  the  proposed  arrangement,  chimed  in  with: 
"That's  the  stuff,  Rose.  Folks  have  got  to  go  it  on 
their  own,  to  get  anywhere." 

By  evening  she  had  a  position  in  an  insurance 
agent's  office  with  wages  upon  which  she  could  live 
with  fair  decency.  As  it  had  rained  all  day  and  her 
employer  wanted  her  to  begin  the  next  morning,  she 
had  the  best  possible  excuse  for  renting  a  room  in 
Fallon  and  asking  Bill  to  ride  in  horseback  with 
some  things  which  she  would  ask  Aunt  Rose,  over 
the  telephone,  to  pack.  It  rained  all  the  next  day, 
too,  and  Sunday,  when  she  met  Mrs.  Wade  and  Bill 
at  church,  she  told  them  she  had  some  extra  typing 
she  had  promised  to  do  by  Monday.  "No,  auntie, 


182  DUST 

this  week  it  is  really  and  truly  just  impossible,  but 
next  week  —  honest  and  true!"  she  insisted  as  the 
older  woman  seconded  rather  impersonally  her  son's 
urgent  invitation  to  chicken  and  noodles. 

Soon  winter  was  upon  them  in  good  earnest,  and 
Rose's  visits  "home/'  as  she  always  called  it,  were 
naturally  infrequent.  By  Christmas  time,  she  was 
receiving  attentions  from  Frank  Mall,  Nellie's 
second  son,  a  young  farmer  of  twenty-five. 

To  Mrs.  Wade's  everlasting  credit,  she  never 
twitted  Martin  with  this,  although  she  knew  it  from 
Rose's  own  lips,  a  month  before  he  heard  of  it 
through  Bill.  She  was  too  grateful  for  their  narrow 
escape  to  feel  vindictive  and  might  have  convinced 
herself  they  had  merely  endured  a  bad  nightmare  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  shiny  Victrola;  the  sight  of 
it  underscored  the  whole  experience  and  she  wished 
there  were  some  way  to  get  rid  of  the  thing,  a  wish 
that  was  echoed  even  more  fervently  by  Martin.  In 
the  evenings  they  would  sit  around  the  cleared 
supper  table,  she  doing  odd  jobs  of  mending,  Martin 
reading,  checking  up  the  interest  dates  on  his 
mortgages  or  making  entries  in  his  account  book, 
while  Bill  at  his  books,  would  study  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  record  after  record,  blissfully  uncon 
scious  of  what  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  he  and  his  music 
were  to  both  his  parents. 


THE  DUST  SMOTHERS  183 

It  was  all  so  unpleasant.  To  Mrs.  Wade  it 
brought  up  pictures.  And  it  made  Martin  feel 
sheepish  —  the  way  he  had  felt  that  afternoon, 
decades  ago,  as  he  sat  in  the  bakery  eating  a  choco 
late  ice-cream  soda  and  watching  her  walk  across  the 
Square.  He  would  have  told  Bill  to  quit  playing 
it  —  more  than  once  the  sharp  words  were  on  his 
tongue  —  but  memories  of  the  enthusiasm  he  had 
evinced  the  night  he  brought  it  home  kept  him 
silent.  He  was  afraid  of  what  the  boy  might  say, 
afraid  he  might  put  two  and  two  together,  so  he  let- 
it  stay,  although  with  his  usual  caution  he  had  ar 
ranged  for  a  trial  and  would  have  felt  justified  in 
packing  it  back  as  soon  as  the  roads  had  permitted. 
Illogically,  he  felt  it  was  all  Bill's  fault  that  he 
must  endure  this  annoyance. 

That  fall,  the  boy  started  to  high  school  in  Fallon, 
making  the  long  daily  ride  to  and  from  town  on 
horseback.  He  was  a  good  pupil  and  the  hours  he 
spent  with  his  lessons  were  precious ;  they  made  the 
farm  drift  away.  To  his  mind,  which  was  opening 
like  a  bud,  it  seemed  that  history  was  the  recorded 
romance  of  men  who  were  everything  but  farmers. 
School  books  told  fascinating  stories  of  conquerors, 
soldiers,  inventors,  writers,  engineers,  kings,  states 
men  and  orators.  He  would  sit  and  dream  of  the 
doers  of  great  deeds.  When  he  read  of  Alexander 


184  DUST 

the  Great,  Bill  was  he.  He  was  Caesar  and  Na 
poleon,  Washington  and  Lincoln,  Grant  and  Edison 
and  Shakespeare.  When  railroads  were  built  in  the 
pages  of  his  American  History,  it  was  Bill,  himself, 
no  less,  who  was  the  presiding  genius.  His  imagina 
tion  constructed  and  levelled,  and  rebuilt  and  re 
made. 

One  beautiful  November  afternoon,  in  his  Junior 
year,  at  the  sound  of  the  last  bell,  which  usually 
found  him  cantering  out  of  town,  he  went  instead  to 
the  school  reading-room,  and,  sitting  down  calmly, 
opened  his  book  and  slowly  read.  The  clock  ticked 
off  the  seconds  he  was  stealing  from  his  father; 
counted  the  minutes  that  had  never  belonged  to 
Bill  before,  but  which  now  tasted  like  old  wine  on 
the  palate.  He  cuddled  down,  lost  to  the  world  until 
five  o'clock,  when  the  building  was  closed.  He  left 
it  only  to  march  down  a  few  blocks  to  the  town's 
meager  library,  where  another  hour  flew  past. 
Gradually  an  empty  feeling  in  his  middle  region  be 
came  increasingly  insistent,  and  briefly  exploring  his 
pockets,  Bill  decided  upon  a  restaurant  where  he 
bought  a  stew  and  rolls  for  fifteen  cents.  Never  had 
a  supper  tasted  so  satisfying.  After  it,  he  strolled 
around  the  town,  feeling  a  pleasant  warmth  in  his 
veins,  a  springiness  to  his  legs,  a  new  song  in  his 
heart.  It  was  so  good  to  be  free  to  go  where  he 


THE  DUST  SMOTHERS  185 

pleased,  to  be  his  own  master,  if  only  for  a  stolen 
hour,  to  keep  out  of  sight  of  a  cow  or  a  plow.  He 
wondered  why  he  had  never  done  this  before. 

It  was  youth  daring  Fate,  without  show  or 
bravado  or  fear;  rolling  the  honey  under  his  tongue 
and  drawing  in  its  sweetness;  youth,  that  lives  for 
the  moment,  that  can  be  blind  to  the  threatening 
future,  that  can  forget  the  mean  past;  youth  slip 
ping  along  with  some  chewing-gum  between  his 
teeth  and  a  warm  sensation  in  his  stew-crammed 
stomach,  whistling,  dreaming,  happy;  youth,  that 
can,  without  premeditation,  remain  away  from  home 
and  leave  udders  untapped  and  pigs  unfed;  sublime 
enigma ;  angering  bit  of  irresponsibility  to  the  Mar 
tins  of  a  fiercely  practical  world.  Bill  was  that  rare 
kind  of  boy  who  could  pull  away  from  the  traces 
just  when  he  seemed  most  thoroughly  broken  to  the 
harness. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  he  got  his  pony  out  of 
the  livery  barn  and  started  for  home.  Even  on  the 
way,  he  refused  to  imagine  what  would  happen.  He 
entered  the  house  quietly,  as  though  to  tell  his 
father  that  it  was  his  next  move,  and  setting  his 
bundle  of  books  on  a  chair,  he  glanced  at  his  mother. 
She  was  at  the  stove,  where  an  armful  of  kindling 
had  been  set  off  to  take  the  chill  out  of  the  house. 
She  looked  at  him  mysteriously,  as  though  he  were 


186  DUST 

a  ghost  of  some  lost  one  who  had  strayed  in  from  a 
graveyard,  but  she  said  nothing.  Bill  did  not  even 
nod  to  her.  He  fumbled  with  his  books,  as  though 
to  keep  them  from  slipping  to  the  floor  when,  quite 
obviously,  they  were  not  even  inclined  to  leave  the 
chair.  Rose  let  her  eyes  fall  and  then  slide,  under 
half-closed  lids,  until  they  had  Martin  in  her  view. 
She  looked  at  him  appealingly,  but  he  was  staring 
at  a  paper  which  he  was  not  reading.  He  had  been 
in  this  chair  for  two  hours,  without  a  word,  pretend 
ing  to  be  studying  printed  words  which  his  mind 
refused  to  register.  Martin  had  done  Bill's  share  of 
the  chores,  with  unbelief  in  his  heart.  He  had  never 
imagined  such  a  thing.  Who  would  have  thought  it 
could  happen  —  a  son  of  his ! 

His  wife  broke  the  silence  with : 

"What  happened,  Billy?     Were  you  sick?" 

"No,  mother,  I  wasn't  sick." 

Martin  was  still  looking  at  his  paper,  which  his 
fists  gripped  tightly. 

"Then  you  just  couldn't  get  home  sooner,  could 
you?  Something  you  couldn't  help  kept  you  away, 
didn't  it?" 

Bill  shook  his  head  slowly.  "No,"  he  answered 
easily.  "I  could  have  come  home  much  sooner." 

"Billy,  dear,  what  did  happen?"  She  was  begin 
ning  to  feel  panicky;  he  was  courting  distress. 


THE  DUST  SMOTHERS  187 

"Nothing,  mother.  I  just  felt  like  staying  in  the 
reading-room  and  reading  — " 

"Oh,  you  had  to  do  some  lessons,  didn't  you! 
Miss  Roberts  should  have  known  better  — " 

"I  didn't  have  to  stay  in  —  I  wanted  to." 

Martin  still  kept  silent,  his  eyes  looking  over  the 
newspaper  wide  open,  staring,  the  muscles  of  his 
jaw  relaxed.  The  boy  was  quick  to  sense  that  he 
was  winning  —  the  simple,  non-resistance  of  the 
lamb  was  confounding  his  father. 

"I  wanted  to  stay.  I  read  a  book,  and  then  I  took 
a  walk,  and  then  I  dropped  in  at  the  restaurant  for 
a  bite,  and  then  I  walked  around  some  more,  and 
then  I  went  to  a  movie." 

"Billy,  what  are  you  saying?" 

Martin,  slowly  putting  down  his  paper,  remarked 
without  stressing  a  syllable: 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,  Bill;  at  once,  without 
arguing." 

Bill  moved  towards  the  parlor,  as  though  to  obey. 
At  the  door  he  stopped  a  moment  and  said:  "I 
wasn't  arguing;  I  was  just  answering  mother.  She 
wanted  to  know." 

"She  does  not  want  to  know." 

"Then  I  wanted  her  to  know  that  I  don't  intend 
to  work  after  school  any  more.  I'll  do  my  chores 
in  the  morning,  but  that's  all.  From  now  on  no 
body  can  make  me  do  anything." 


188  DUST 

"I  am  not  asking  you  to  do  anything  but  go  to 
bed." 

"I  don't  intend  to  come  home  tomorrow  afternoon 
until  I'm  ready.  Or  any  afternoon.  And  if  you 
don't  like  it  — " 

"Billy!"  his  mother  cried;  "Billy!  go  to  bed!" 

The  boy  obeyed. 

Bill  was  fifteen  when  this  took  place.  The  im 
possible  had  happened.  He  had  challenged  the 
master  and  had  won.  Even  after  he  had  turned  in, 
his  father  remained  silent,  feeling  a  secret  respect 
for  him;  mysteriously  he  had  grown  suddenly  to 
manhood.  Martin  was  too  mental  to  let  anger  ex 
press  itself  in  violence  and,  besides,  strangely 
enough,  he  felt  no  desire  to  punish;  there  was  still 
the  dislike  he  had  always  felt  for  him  —  his  son  who 
was  the  son  of  this  woman,  but  though  he  would 
never  have  confessed  aloud  the  satisfaction  it  gave 
him,  he  began  to  see  there  was  in  the  boy  more  than 
a  little  of  himself. 

"Poor  Billy,"  his  mother  apologized;  "he's  tired." 

"He  didn't  say  he  was  tired — " 

"Then  he  did  say  he  was  tired  of  working 
evenings." 

"That's  different." 

"Yes,  it's  different,  Martin;  but  can  you  make 
him  work?" 


THE  DUST  SMOTHERS  189 

"No,  I  don't  intend  to  try.    He  isn't  my  slave." 

With  overwhelming  pride  in  her  eyes,  pride  that 
shook  her  voice,  she  exclaimed:  "Not  anybody's 
slave,  and  not  afraid  to  declare  it.  Billy  is  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  a  boy.  He  doesn't  like  the  farm  —  he 
hates  it  — " 

"I  know." 

"He  loathes  everything  about  it.  Only  the  other 
day  he  told  me  he  wished  he  could  take  it  and  tear 
it  board  from  board,  and  leave  it  just  a  piece  of 
bleak  prairie,  as  it  was  when  your  father  brought 
you  here,  Martin." 

"You  actually  mean  he  said  he  would  tear  down 
what  took  so  many  years  of  work  to  build?  This 
farm  that  gives  him  a  home  and  clothes  and  feeds 
him?" 

"He  did,  Martin.  And  he  meant  it  —  there  was 
hatred  burning  in  his  eyes.  There's  that  in  his  heart 
which  can  tear  and  rend ;  and  there's  that  which  can 
build.  Oh,  my  unhappy  Billy,  my  boy!" 

"Don't  get  hysterical.  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do?  Have  I  said  he  must  work?" 

"No,  but  you  have  tried  to  rub  it  into  his  soul 
and  it  just  can't  be  done.  You're  not  to  be  blamed 
for  being  what  you  are,  nor  is  Billy  —  I'll  milk  his 
cows." 

"I'm  not  asking  that." 


190  DUST 

"But  I  will,  Martin." 

"And  let  him  stand  by  and  watch  you?" 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  will.  Billy  must  get  away 
from  here.  I  see  that  now." 

"I  haven't  suggested  it." 

"But  I  do.  I  want  him  to  be  happy.  We'll  let 
him  board  in  Fallon  the  rest  of  the  year.  The  butter 
and  egg  money  will  be  enough  to  carry  him  through. 
It  won't  cost  much.  If  we  don't  send  him,  he'll  run 
away.  I  know  him.  He's  my  boy,  and  your  son, 
Martin.  I  won't  see  him  suffer  in  a  strange  world, 
learning  his  lessons  from  bitter  experiences.  I  want 
him  to  be  taken  care  of." 

"Very  well,  have  it  as  you  say.  I'm  not  putting 
anything  in  the  way.  I  thought  this  was  his  home, 
but  I  see  it  isn't.  It  isn't  a  prison.  He  can  go,  and 
good  luck  go  with  him."  And  after  a  long  silence: 
"He  would  tear  down  this  farm  —  the  best  in  the 
county!  Tear  it  down  —  board  from  board!" 


IX 

MARTIN'S  SON  SHAKES  OFF 
THE  DUST 


IX 

MARTIN'S  SON  SHAKES  OFF  THE  DUST 

THE  very  next  day,  Mrs.  Wade  rented  a  room 
for  Bill  in  the  same  home  in  which  Rose 
boarded,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  winter  she 
and  Martin  went  on  as  before  —  working  as  hard  as 
ever  and  making  money  even  faster,  while  peace 
settled  over  their  household,  a  peace  so  profound 
that,  in  her  more  intuitive  moments,  Bill's  mother 
felt  in  it  an  ominous  quality. 

The  storm  broke  with  the  summer  vacation  and 
the  boy's  point-blank  refusal  to  return  to  farm  work. 
His  father  laid  down  an  ultimatum:  until  he  came 
home  he  should  not  have  a  cent  even  from  his 
mother,  and  home  he  should  not  come,  at  all,  until 
he  was  willing  to  carry  his  share  of  the  farm  work 
willingly,  and  without  further  argument.  "You 
see,"  he  pointed  out  to  his  wife,  "that's  the  thanks 
I  get  for  managing  along  without  him  this  winter. 
The  ungrateful  young  rascal!  If  he  doesn't  come  to 
his  senses  shortly — " 

"Oh,  Martin,  don't  do  anything  rash,"  implored 

103 


194  DUST 

Mrs.  Wade.  "Nearly  all  boys  go  through  this  period. 
Just  be  patient  with  him." 

But  even  she  was  shaken  when  his  Aunt  Nellie, 
over  ostensibly  for  an  afternoon  of  sociable  carpet- 
rag  sewing,  began  abruptly:  "Do  you  know  what 
Bill  is  doing,  Rose?" 

"Working  in  the  mines,"  returned  his  mother 
easily.  "Isn't  it  strange,  Nellie,  that  he  should  be 
digging  coal  right  under  this  farm,  the  very  coal  that 
gave  Martin  his  start?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  beat  about  the  bush,"  con 
tinued  her  sister-in-law  abruptly.  "He's  working  in 
the  mines  all  right,  but  he  isn't  digging  coal  at  all, 
though  that  would  be  bad  enough.  I  wouldn't  say 
a  word  about  it,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  know  the 
truth  and  put  a  stop  to  such  a  risky  business  —  he's 
firing  shots." 

Rose's  heart  jumped,  but  she  continued  to  wind 
up  her  large  ball  with  the  same  uninterrupted  mo 
tion. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"I  made  Frank  find  out  for  certain.  It's  an  extra 
dangerous  mine  because  gas  forms  in  it  unusually 
often,  and  he  gets  fifteen  dollars  a  day  for  the  one 
hour  he  works.  There's  a  contract,  but  he's  told 
them  he's  twenty-one,  and  when  you  prove  he's 
under  age  they'll  make  him  stop." 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    195 

Rose  still  wound  and  wound,  her  clear  eyes,  look 
ing  over  her  glasses,  fixed  on  Nellie. 

"It's  bad  enough,  I'll  say,"  rapped  out  the  spare, 
angular  woman,  "to  have  everybody  talking  about 
the  way  Martin  has  ditched  his  son,  without  having 
the  boy  scattered  to  bits,  or  burned  to  a  cinder.  Al 
ready  he's  been  blown  twenty  feet  by  one  windy 
shot,  and  more  than  once  he's  had  to  lie  flat  while 
those  horrible  gases  burned  themselves  out  right  over 
his  head.  His  'buddie/  the  Italian  who  fires  in  the 
other  part  of  the  mine  at  the  same  time,  told  Harry 
Brown,  the  nightman,  and  he  told  Frank,  himself. 
Why,  they  say  if  he'd  have  moved  the  least  bit  it 
would  have  fanned  the  fire  downward  and  he'd  have 
been  in  a  fine  mess.  Sooner  or  later  all  shot-firers 
meet  a  tragic  end.  You  want  to  put  your  foot  down, 
Rose,  and  put  it  down  hard  —  for  once  in  your  life 
—  if  you  can,"  she  added,  half  under  her  breath. 

"It  isn't  altogether  Martin's  fault,"  began  Rose, 
but  Nellie  cut  her  off  with  a  short :  "Now,  don't  you 
tell  me  a  word  about  that  precious  brother  of  mine ! 
It's  as  plain  to  me  as  the  nose  on  your  face  that  be 
tween  his  bull-headed  hardness  and  your  wishy- 
washy  softness  you're  fixing  to  ruin  one  of  the  best 
boys  God  ever  put  on  this  earth." 

"I'll  talk  to  Billy,"  Rose  promised. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  evor  had  found  herself 


196  DUST 

definitely  in  opposition  to  her  boy,  but  she  felt 
serene  in  the  confidence  of  her  own  power  to  dis 
suade  him  from  anything  so  perilous.  She  under 
stood  the  general  routine  of  mining,  and  had  been 
daily  picturing  him  going  down  in  the  cage  to  the 
bottom,  travelling  through  a  long  entry  until  he  was 
under  his  home  farm  and  located  in  one  of  the  low, 
three-foot  rooms  where  a  Kansas  miner  must  stoop 
all  day.  Oh,  how  it  had  hurt  —  that  thought  of 
those  fine  young  shoulders  bending,  bending!  She 
had  visualized  him  filling  his  car,  and  mentally  had 
followed  his  coal  as  it  was  carried  up  to  the  surface 
to  be  dumped  into  the  hopper,  weighed  and  dropped 
down  the  chute  into  the  flat  cars.  Of  course,  there 
was  always  the  danger  of  a  loosened  rock  falling  on 
him,  but  wasn't  there  always  the  possibility  of  acci 
dents  on  a  farm,  too?  Didn't  the  company's  man 
always  go  down,  first,  into  the  mine  to  test  the  air 
and  make  certain  it  was  all  right?  Rose  had  con 
vinced  herself  that  the  risk  was  not  so  great,  after 
all,  though  she  could  not  help  sharing  a  little  of  her 
husband's  wonder  that  the  boy  could  prefer  to  work 
underground  instead  of  in  the  sweet,  fresh  sunshine. 
But  she  had  thought  it  was  because  in  the  despera 
tion  of  his  complete  revolt  from  Martin's  domina 
tion  anything  else  seemed  to  him  preferable.  Now, 
in  a  lightning  flash,  she  understood.  This  reaction 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    197 

from  a  life  whose  duties  had  begun  before  sun-up 
and  ended  long  after  sundown,  made  danger  seem 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  marvellous  chance 
to  earn  a  comfortable  living  with  only  one  hour's 
work  a  day. 

Her  conversation  with  Bill  proved  that  she  had 
been  only  too  right.  The  boy  was  intoxicated  with 
his  own  liberty.  "I  know  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
mother,"  he  confessed.  "I  wanted  to.  Honest,  I 
did,  but  I  was  afraid  you'd  worry,  though  you 
needn't.  The  man  who  taught  me  how  to  fire  has 
been  doing  it  over  twenty  years.  A  lot  of  it's  up  to 
a  fellow,  himself.  You  can  pretty  near  tell  if  the 
air  is  all  right  by  the  way  it  blows  —  the  less  the 
better  it  is.  And  if  you're  right  careful  to  see  that 
the  tool-boxes  the  boys  leave  are  all  locked  —  so's 
no  powder  can  catch,  you  know  —  and  always  start 
lighting  against  the  air,  so  that  if  there's  gas  and  it 
catches  the  fire'll  blow  away  from  you  instead  of 
following  you  up  —  and  if  you  examine  the  fuses  to 
see  they're  long  enough  and  the  powder  is  tamped 
in  just  right  —  each  miner  does  that  before  he  leaves 
and  lots  of  firers  just  give  'em  a  hasty  once-over  in 
stead  of  a  real  look  —  and  then  shake  your  heels 
good  and  fast  after  you  do  fire  — " 

"Billy!"  Rose  was  white.  "I  can't  bear  it  — to 
hear  you  go  on  so  lightly,  when  it's  your  life,  your 


198  DUST 

lije,  you're  playing  with.  For  my  sake,  son,  give  it 
up." 

With  an  odd  sinking  of  the  heart,  she  observed 
the  expression  in  his  face  which  she  had  seen  so 
often  in  his  father's  —  the  one  that  said  as  plainly 
as  words  that  nothing  could  shake  his  determina 
tion.  "A  fellow's  got  a  right  to  some  good  times  in 
this  world,"  he  said  very  low,  "and  I'm  getting  mine 
now.  I'm  not  going  to  grind  away  and  grind  away 
all  my  life  like  father  and  you've  done.  If  anything 
did  happen  I'd  have  had  a  chance  to  dream  and 
think  and  read  instead  of  getting  to  be  old  without 
ever  having  any  fun  out  of  it  all.  Maybe  you  won't 
believe  it,  but  some  days  for  hours  I  just  lie  in  the 
sun  like  a  darky  boy,  not  even  thinking.  Gee!  it 
feels  great!  And  sometimes  I  read  all  day  until  I 
have  to  go  to  the  mine.  There's  one  thing  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  square,"  he  went  on,  a  firm  ring  in  his 
voice,  boyish  for  all  its  deep,  bass  note,  "I'm  never 
going  back  to  the  farm,  never!  Mother,"  he  cried, 
suddenly,  coming  over  to  take  her  hand  in  both  his. 
"Will  you  leave  father?  We  could  rent  a  little  house 
and  you'd  have  hardly  anything  to  do.  I'm  making 
more  than  lots  of  men  with  families.  And  I'd  give 
you  my  envelope  without  opening  it  every  pay-day." 

"Oh,  Billy,  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying! 
I  couldn't  leave  your  father.  I  couldn't  think  of  it." 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    199 

"What  I  don't  see  is  how  you  can  stand  it  to  stay 
with  him.  He's  always  been  a  brute  to  you.  He's 
never  cared  a  red  cent  for  either  of  us." 

Rose  was  abashed  before  the  harsh  logic  of  youth. 
"Oh,  son,"  she  murmured  brokenly,  "there  are  things 
one  can't  explain.  I  suppose  it  may  seem  strange 
to  you  —  but  his  life  has  been  so  empty.  He  has 
missed  so  much!  Everything,  Billy." 

"Then  it's  his  own  fault,"  judged  the  boy.  "If 
ever  anybody's  always  had  his  own  way  and  done 
just  as  he  darn  pleased  it's  father.  I  wish  he'd  die, 
that's  what  I  wish." 

"Bill!"    His  mother's  tone  was  stern. 

"There  you  are!"  he  marvelled.  "You  must  have 
wished  it  lots  of  times  yourself.  I  know  you  have. 
Yet  you  always  talk  as  if  you  loved  him." 

In  Rose's  eyes,  the  habitual  look  of  patience  and 
understanding  deepened.  How  could  Bill,  as  yet 
scarcely  tried  by  life,  comprehend  the  purging  flames 
through  which  she  had  passed  or  realize  time's  power 
to  reveal  unsuspected  truths. 

"When  you've  been  married  to  a  man  nearly 
twenty-two  years  and  have  built  up  a  place  to 
gether,  there's  bound  to  be  a  bond  between  you," 
she  eluded.  "He  just  lives  for  this  farm.  It's  al 
most  as  dear  to  him  as  you  are  to  me,  son,  and  it's 
a  wonderful  heritage,  Bill,  a  magnificent  heritage. 


200  DUST 

Just  think!  Two  generations  have  labored  to  build 
it  out  of  the  dust.  Your  father's  whole  life  is  in  it. 
Your  father's  and  mine.  And  your  grandmother's. 
If  only  you  could  ever  come  to  care  for  it!" 

Bill  fidgeted  uneasily.  "You  mean  you  want  me 
to  go  on  with  it?"  he  demanded.  "You  want  me  to 
come  back  to  it,  settle  down  to  be  a  farmer  —  like 
father?" 

The  tone  in  which  he  asked  this  question  made 
Rose  choose  her  words  carefully. 

"What  are  your  plans,  son?  What  do  you  want 
to  be  —  not  just  now,  but  finally?" 

"I  can't  see  what  difference  it  makes  what  a  fellow 
is  —  except  that  in  one  business  a  man  makes  more 
than  in  another.  And  I  can't  see  either  that  it  does 
a  person  a  bit  of  good  to  have  money.  I'm  having 
more  fun  right  now  than  father  or  you  ever  had  — 
more  fun  than  anybody  I  know.  Mother,"  and  his 
face  was  solemn  as  if  with  a  great  discovery,  "I've 
figured  it  out  that  it's  silly  to  do  as  most  people  — 
just  live  to  work.  I'm  going  to  work  just  enough  to 
live  comfortably.  Not  one  scrap  more,  either.  You 
can't  think  how  I  hate  the  very  thought  of  it." 

Rose  sighed.  Couldn't  she,  indeed!  She  under 
stood  only  too  well  how  deeply  this  rebellion  was 
rooted.  The  hours  when  he  had  been  dragged  up 
from  the  far  shores  of  a  dreamful  slumber  to  shiver 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    201 

forth  in  the  chill  darkness  to  milk  and  chore,  still 
rankled.  Those  tangy  frosty  afternoons,  when  he 
had  been  forced  to  clean  barns  and  plow  while  the 
other  boys  went  rabbit  and  possum  hunting  or  nut 
ting,  were  afternoons  whose  loss  he  still  mourned. 
Nothing  had  yet  atoned  for  the  evenings  when  he 
had  been  torn  from  his  reading  and  sent  sternly  to 
bed  because  he  must  get  up  so  early.  Always  work 
had  stolen  from  him  these  treasures  —  dreams,  rec 
reation  and  knowledge.  He  had  been  obliged  to 
fight  the  farm  and  his  father  for  even  a  modicum 
of  them  —  the  things  that  made  life  worth  living. 
And  the  irony  of  it  —  that  eventually  it  would  be 
this  farm  and  Martin's  driving  methods  which,  if 
he  became  reconciled  to  his  father,  would  make  it 
possible  for  him  to  drink  all  the  fullness  of  leisure. 

It  was  too  tragic  that  the  very  thing  which  should 
have  stood  for  opportunity  to  the  boy  had  been  used 
to  embitter  him  and  drive  him  into  danger.  But 
he  must  not  lose  his  birthright.  An  almost  passion 
ate  desire  welled  in  Rose's  heart  to  hold  on  to  it  for 
him.  True,  she  too  had  been  a  slave  to  the  farm. 
Yet  not  so  much  a  slave  to  it,  she  distinguished,  as 
to  Martin's  absorption  in  its  development.  And  of 
late  years  there  had  been  for  her,  running  through 
all  the  humdrum  days,  a  satisfaction  in  perfecting 
it.  In  her  mind  now  floated  clearly  the  ideal  toward 


202  DUST 

which  her  husband  was  striving.  She  had  not 
guessed  how  much  it  had  become  her  own  until  she 
felt  herself  being  drawn  relentlessly  by  Bill's  quiet, 
but  implacable  determination  to  have  her  leave  it 
all  behind.  If  only  he  would  try  again,  she  felt  sure 
all  would  be  so  different!  His  father  had  learned  a 
lesson,  of  that  she  was  positive,  and  though  he 
would  not  promise  it,  would  not  be  so  hard  on  the 
boy.  And  with  this  new  independence  of  Bill's  to 
strengthen  her,  they  could  resist  Martin  more  suc 
cessfully  as  different  issues  came  up.  She  could 
manage  to  help  her  boy  get  what  he  wanted  out  of 
life  without  his  having  to  pay  such  a  terrible  price 
as,  the  mine  on  one  hand,  and  his  father's  dis 
pleasure  on  the  other,  might  exact,  for  she  knew  that 
if  he  persisted  too  long,  the  break  with  Martin  could 
never  be  bridged  and  that  in  the  end  his  father 
would  evoke  the  full  powers  of  the  law  to  disinherit 
him  and  tie  her  own  hands  as  completely  as  possible 
in  that  direction. 

But  she  was  far  too  wise  to  press  such  arguments 
in  her  son's  present  mood.  They  would  have  to  drift 
for  a  while,  she  saw  that  clearly,  until  she  could 
gradually  impress  upon  him  how  different  farming 
would  be  if  he  were  his  own  master.  In  time,  he 
might  even  come  to  understand  how  much  Martin 
needed  her. 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    203 

"Say  you  will,"  Bill,  pleading,  insistent,  broke  in 
on  her  train  of  reflections,  "I've  always  dreamed  of 
this  day,  when  we'd  go  away,  and  now  it's  come.  I 
can  take  care  of  you." 

As  he  stood  there,  a  glorious  figure  in  his  youthful 
self-confidence,  a  turn  of  his  head  reminded  her  a 
second  time  of  Martin,  recalling  sharply  the  way 
her  husband  had  looked  the  night  he  told  her  of  his 
love  for  the  other  Rose.  He  had  been  bothered  by 
no  fine  qualms  about  abandoning  herself.  She 
thought  of  his  final  surrender  of  love  to  wisdom. 
It  was  only  youth  that  dared  pursue  happiness  — 
to  purchase  delicious  idleness  by  gambling  with 
death.  Billy  was  her  boy.  His  dreams  and  hopes 
should  be  hers;  her  way  of  life,  the  one  that  gave 
him  the  most  joy.  She  would  follow  him,  if  need 
be,  to  the  end  of  the  earth. 

"Very  well,  son,"  she  said  simply,  her  voice  break 
ing  over  the  few  words.  "If  a  year  from  now  you 
still  feel  like  this,  I'll  do  as  you  wish." 

"You  don't  know  how  I  hate  him,"  muttered  the 
boy.  "It's  only  when  I'm  tramping  in  the  woods,  or 
in  the  middle  of  some  book  I  like  that  I  can  forgive 
him  for  living.  No,  mother,  I  don't  mean  all  that," 
he  laughed,  giving  her  a  bear-like  hug. 

It  was  in  this  more  reasonable  side,  this  ability  to 
change  his  point  of  view  quickly  when  he  became 


204  DUST 

convinced  he  was  wrong,  that  Mrs.  Wade  now  put 
her  faith.  She  would  give  him  plenty  of  rope,  she 
decided,  not  try  to  drive  him.  It  would  all  come 
right,  if  she  only  waited,  and  she  prayed,  nightly, 
with  an  increasing  tranquillity,  that  he  might  be 
kept  safe  from  harm,  taking  deep  comfort  in  the  new 
light  of  contentment  that  was  gradually  stealing 
into  his  face.  After  all,  each  one  had  to  work  out 
his  destiny  in  his  own  way,  she  supposed. 

It  was  less  than  a  month  later  that  her  telephone 
rang,  and  Rose,  calmly  laying  aside  her  sewing  and 
getting  up  rather  stiffly  because  of  her  rheumatism, 
answered,  thinking  it  probably  a  call  from  Martin, 
who  had  left  earlier  in  the  evening,  to  wind  up  a 
little  matter  of  a  chattel  on  some  growing  wheat. 
It  had  just  begun  to  rain  and  she  feared  he  might 
be  stuck  in  the  road  somewhere,  calling  to  tell  her 
to  come  for  him.  But  it  was  not  Martin's  voice  that 
answered. 

"Mrs.  Wade?" 

"Yes." 

"Why"  —  there  was  a  forbidding  break  that  made 
her  shudder.  A  second  later  she  convinced  herself 
that  it  seemed  a  natural  halt  —  people  do  such 
things  without  any  apparent  cause;  but  she  could 
not  help  shaking  a  little. 

"Is  it  about  Mr.  Wade?"  and  as  she  asked  this 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    205 

question  she  wondered  why  she  had  spoken  her  hus 
band's  name  when  it  was  Bill's  that  really  had 
rushed  through  her  mind. 

"No,  ma'am,  it  ain't  about  Martin  Wade  I'm 
callin'  you  up,  it  ain't  him  at  all  — " 

"I  see/'  She  said  this  calmly  and  quietly,  as 
though  to  impress  her  informant  and  reassure  him. 
"What  is  it?"  It  was  almost  unnecessary  to  ask, 
for  she  knew  already  what  had  happened,  knew  that 
the  boy  had  flung  his  dice  and  lost. 

"It's  your  son,  Mrs.  Wade;  it's  him  I'm  a-callin' 
about.  We're  about  to  bring  him  home  to  you  — 
an'  —  and  I  thought  it'd  be  better  to  call  you  up 
first  so's  you  might  expect  us  an'  not  take  on  with 
the  suddenness  of  it  all.  This  is  Brown  —  Harry 
Brown  —  the  nightman  at  the  mine  down  here. 
We've  got  the  ambulance  here  and  we're  about  ready 
to  start."  There  was  an  evenness  about  the  strange 
voice  that  she  understood  better  than  its  words.  If 
Bill  had  been  hurt  the  man  would  have  been  quick 
and  jerky  in  his  speaking  as  though  he  were  feeling 
the  boy's  pain  with  him;  but  he  was  so  even  about 
it  all  —  as  even  as  Death. 

"Then  I'll  phone  for  Dr.  Bradley  so  he'll  be  here 
by  the  time  you  come,"  said  Rose,  wondering  how 
she  could  think  of  so  practical  a  thing.  Her  mind 
had  wrapped  itself  in  a  protecting  armor,  forbidding 


206  DUST 

the  shock  of  it  all  to  strike  with  a  single  blow.    She 
couldn't  understand  why  she  was  not  screaming. 

"You  can  — if  you  want  to,  but  Bill  don't  need 
him,  Mrs.  Wade,  —  he's  dead." 

Slowly  she  hung  up  the  receiver,  the  wall  still 
around  her  brain,  holding  it  tight  and  keeping  her 
nerves  taut,  afraid  to  release  them  for  fear  they 
might  snap.  She  stood  there  looking  at  the  receiver 
as  her  hands  came  together. 

As  though  she  were  talking  to  a  person  instead  of 
the  telephone  before  her,  she  gasped :  "So  —  so  t his 
is  what  it  has  all  been  for  —  this.  Into  the  world, 
into  Martin's  world  —  and  this  way  out  of  it. 
Burned  to  death  —  Billy." 

The  rain  had  lessened  a  little  and  now  the  wind 
began  to  shake  the  house,  rattle  the  windows  and 
scream  as  it  tore  its  way  over  the  plains.  The  sky 
flared  white  and  the  world  lighted  up  suddenly,  as 
though  the  sun  had  been  turned  on  from  an  electric 
switch.  At  the  same  instant  she  saw  a  bolt  of  light 
ning  strike  a  young  tree  by  the  roadside,  heard  the 
sharp  click  as  it  hit  and  then  watched  the  flash 
dance  about,  now  on  the  road,  now  along  the  barbed 
wire  fencing.  Then  the  world  went  black  again. 
And  a  rumble  quickly  grew  to  an  earth-shaking  blast 
of  thunder.  It  was  as  though  that  tree  were  Billy 
—  struck  by  a  gush  of  flying  fire.  The  next  bolt 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    207 

broke  above  the  house,  and  the  light  it  threw  showed 
her  the  stripling  split  and  lying  on  the  ground.  In 
the  impenetrable  darkness  she  realized  that  the 
house  fuse  of  their  Delco  system  must  have  been 
blown  out,  and  she  groped  blindly  for  a  match.  She 
could  hear  the  rain  coming  down  again,  now  in 
rivers.  There  was  unchained  wrath  in  the  down 
pour,  viciousness.  It  was  a  madman  rushing  in  to 
rend  and  tear.  It  frothed,  and  writhed,  and  spat 
hatred.  Rose  shook  as  though  gripped  by  a  strong 
hand.  She  was  afraid  —  of  the  rain,  the  lightning, 
the  thunder,  the  darkness;  alone  there,  waiting  for 
them  to  bring  her  Billy.  She  was  too  terrified  to 
add  her  weeping  to  the  wail  of  the  wind  —  it  would 
have  been  too  ghastly.  Would  she  never  find  a 
match !  As  she  lit  the  lamp,  like  the  stab  of  a  needle 
in  the  midst  of  agony,  came  the  thought  of  how  long 
it  had  been  after  Martin  had  put  in  his  electrical 
system  and  connected  up  his  barns  before  she  had 
been  permitted  to  have  this  convenience  in  the 
house.  What  would  he  think  now?  She  wished  he 
were  home.  Anyone  would  be  better  than  this  aw 
ful  waiting  alone.  She  could  only  stand  there,  away 
from  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  sheets  of  water 
running  down  the  panes  and  shivering  with  the 
frightfulness  and  savageness  of  it  all. 
Her  ears  caught  a  rumble,  fainter  than  thunder, 


208  DUST 

and  the  splash  of  horses'  hoofs  —  "it's  too  muddy 
for  the  motor  ambulance,"  she  thought,  mechani 
cally.  "They're  using  the  old  one,"  and  her  heart 
contracting,  twisting,  a  queer  dryness  in  her  throat, 
she  opened  the  door  as  they  stopped,  her  hand  shad 
ing  the  lamp  against  the  sudden  inrush  of  wind  and 
rain.  "In  there,  through  the  parlor,"  she  said  dully, 
indicating  the  new  room  and  thinking,  bitterly,  as 
she  followed  them,  that  now,  when  it  could  mean 
nothing  to  Billy,  Martin  would  offer  no  objections 
to  its  being  given  over  to  him. 

The  scuffling  of  feet,  the  low,  matter-of-fact 
orders  of  a  directing  voice:  "Easy  now,  boys  —  all 
together,  lift.  Watch  out;  pull  that  sheet  back  up 
over  him,"  and  a  brawny,  work-stooped  man  saying 
to  her  awkwardly:  "I  wouldn't  look  at  him  if  I  was 
you,  Mrs.  Wade,  till  the  undertaker  fixes  him  up," 
and  she  was  once  more  alone. 

As  if  transfixed,  she  continued  to  stand,  looking 
beyond  the  lamp,  beyond  the  bed  on  which  her  son's 
large  figure  was  outlined  by  the  sheet,  beyond  the 
front  door  which  faced  her,  beyond  —  into  the  night, 
looking  for  Martin,  waiting  for  him  to  come  home 
to  his  boy.  She  asked  herself  again  and  again  how 
she  had  been  so  restrained  when  her  Billy  had  been 
carried  in.  After  what  seemed  interminable  ages, 
she  heard  heavy  steps  on  the  back  porch  and  knew 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    209 

that  her  husband  had  returned  at  last.  He  brought 
in  with  him  a  gust  of  wind  that  caused  the  lamp 
to  smoke.  She  held  it  with  both  hands,  afraid  that 
she  might  drop  it,  and  carrying  it  to  the  dining-room 
table  set  it  down  slowly,  looking  at  him.  He  seemed 
huger  than  ever  with  his  hulk  sinking  into  the  gray 
darkness  behind  him.  There  was  something  ele 
phantine  about  him  as  he  stood  there,  soaked  to  the 
skin,  bending  forward  a  little,  breathing  slowly  and 
deeply,  his  fine  nostrils  distending  with  perfect  regu 
larity,  his  face  in  the  dim  light,  yellow,  with  the 
large  lines  almost  black.  He  was  hatless  and  his 
tawny-gray  hair  was  flat  with  wetness,  coming  down 
almost  to  his  eyes,  so  clear  and  far-seeing. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  lights?  Fuse  blown 
out?"  he  asked,  spitting  imaginary  rain  out  of  his 
mouth. 

Rose  did  not  answer. 

"Awful  night  for  visiting,"  Martin  announced 
roughly,  as  he  took  off  his  coat.  "But  it  was  lucky 
I  went,  or  all  would  have  been  pretty  bad  for  me. 
Do  you  know,  that  rascal  was  delivering  the  wheat 
to  the  elevator  —  wheat  on  which  I  held  a  chattel  — 
and  I  got  to  Tom  Mayer  just  as  he  was  figuring  up 
the  weights.  You  should  have  seen  Johnson's  face 
when  I  came  in.  He  knew  I  had  him  cornered. 
'Here/  I  said,  'what's  up?'  And  that  lying  rascal 


210  DUST 

turned  as  white  as  death  and  said  something  about 
getting  ready  to  bring  me  a  check.  I  told  him  I 
was  much  obliged,  but  I  would  take  it  along  with  me 
—  and  I  did.  Here  it  is  —  fourteen  hundred  dollars, 
plus  interest.  And  I  got  it  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth. 
I  didn't  stop  to  argue  with  him  for  I  saw  the  storm 
coming  on.  I  went  racing,  but  a  half  mile  north  I 
skidded  into  the  ditch.  I  really  feel  like  leaving  the 
car  there  all  night,  but  it  would  do  a  lot  of  damage. 
I'll  have  to  get  a  team  and  drag  it  in.  I  call  it  a 
good  day's  work.  What  do  you  say?"  He  looked 
at  her  closely,  for  the  first  time  noticing  her  drawn 
face  and  far-away  look. 

"What's  the  matter?    You  look  goopy  — " 

Rose  settled  herself  heavily  in  the  rocker  close 
to  the  table. 

"You're  not  sick,  are  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  a  few  times  and  answered: 
"He's  in  there—" 

"Who?"  Martin  straightened  up  ready  for  any 
thing. 

"Billy—" 

"Oh!"  A  light  flashed  into  Martin's  face.  "So 
he  has  come  back,  has  he?  Back  home?  What 
made  him  change  toward  this  place?  Is  he  here  to 
stay?" 

"No,  Martin—" 


MARTIN'S  SON    SHAKES    THE    DUST    211 

"Then  if  he  hasn't  come  to  his  senses,  what  is  he 
doing  here  —  here  in  my  house,  the  home  he 
hates—" 

"He  doesn't  hate  it  now,"  Rose  replied,  struggling 
for  words  that  she  might  express  herself  and  end  this 
cruel  conversation,  but  all  she  could  do  was  to  point 
nervously  toward  the  spare  room. 

"What  is  he  doing  in  there?  It's  the  one  spot  that 
Rose  can  call  her  own,  poor  child." 

"He's  on  the  bed,  Martin  — " 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  davenport  he's  al 
ways  slept  on?  Is  he  sick?  What  in  heaven's  name 
is  going  on  in  this  house?" 

As  Martin  started  toward  the  bedroom,  his  wife 
opened  her  lips  to  tell  him  the  truth  but  the  words 
refused  to  come;  at  the  same  instant  it  struck  her 
that  not  to  speak  was  brutal,  yet  just.  She  would 
let  Martin  go  to  this  bed  with  words  of  anger  on  his 
lips,  with  feelings  of  unkindness  in  his  heart.  She 
would  do  this.  Savage?  Yes,  but  why  not?  There 
seemed  to  be  something  fair  about  it.  Then  her 
heart-strings  pulled  more  strongly  than  ever.  No; 
it  was  too  hard.  She  must  stop  him,  tell  him,  pre 
pare  him.  But  before  the  words  came,  he  was  out 
of  the  room  and  when  she  spoke  he  did  not  hear  her 
because  of  the  rain. 

He  saw  the  vague  lines  of  the  boy's  body,  hidden 


212  DUST 

by  the  sheet,  and  thought  quickly,  "Bill's  old  os 
trich-like  trick,"  and  while  at  the  same  instant  some 
thing  told  him  that  a  terrible  thing  had  happened, 
the  idea  did  not  register  completely  until  he  had  his 
hand  on  the  linen.  Then,  with  a  short  yank,  he 
pulled  away  the  cover  and  saw  the  boy's  head.  Dark 
as  it  was,  it  was  enough  to  show  him  the  truth.  With 
a  quick  move  he  covered  him  again.  There  was  a 
smeary  wetness  on  his  fingers,  which  he  wiped  away 
on  the  side  of  his  trousers.  They  were  drenched  with 
rain,  but  he  distinguished  the  sticky  feel  of  blood 
leaving  his  hand  as  he  rubbed  it  nervously. 

His  first  emotion  was  one  of  anger  with  Rose.  He 
was  sure  she  had  played  this  sinister  jest  deliberately 
to  torture  him  and  he  had  fallen  into  the  trap.  He 
wanted  to  rush  back  into  the  other  room  and  strike 
her  down.  He  would  show  her!  But  he  dismissed 
this  impulse,  for  he  did  not  want  her  to  see  him 
like  this,  no  hold  on  himself  and  his  mind  without 
direction.  Sitting  there,  she  would  have  the  ad 
vantage.  Without  so  much  as  a  sound  except  for 
the  slight  noise  he  made  in  walking,  Martin  went 
through  the  parlor  towards  the  front  door  and 
out  to  the  steps,  where  he  leaned  for  a  moment 
against  the  weather-boarding,  letting  the  rain  fall 
on  him  as  he  stared  dully  down  at  the  ground.  It 
felt  good  to  stand  there.  No  eyes  were  on  him,  and 


MARTIN'S  SON  SHAKES  THE  DUST      213 

the  rain  was  refreshing.  This  had  been  too  much 
for  him.  Never  had  he  known  himself  to  be  so  near 
to  bewilderment.  How  fortunate  that  he  had  es 
caped  by  this  simple  trick  of  leaving  the  house. 
Then  he  thought  of  the  car  —  a  half-mile  north  — 
and  the  horses  in  the  stable.  He  must  do  something. 
He  would  bring  the  car  into  the  garage.  It  was  re 
lieving  to  hurry  across  the  dripping  grass  toward  the 
barn.  How  wonderful  it  was  to  keep  the  body 
doing  something  when  the  breath  in  him  was  short, 
his  heart  battering  like  an  engine  with  burned-out 
bearings,  his  brain  in  insane  chaos.  As  he  applied 
a  match  to  the  lantern  he  thought  of  his  wife  again, 
and  his  face  regained  its  scowl. 

Only  when  he  had  his  great  heavy  team  in  the 
yard,  his  lantern  hanging  from  his  arm,  the  reins  in 
his  hands,  and  was  pulling  back  with  all  his  strength 
as  he  followed  the  horses  —  only  then  did  he  permit 
himself  to  think  about  the  tragedy  that  had  befallen. 

"He's  dead  —  killed,"  he  groaned.  "It  had  to 
come.  Shot-firers  don't  last  long.  Whoa,  there, 
Lottie;  not  so  fast,  Jet,  whoa!"  His  protesting  team 
in  control  again,  he  trudged  heavily  behind.  "It's 
terrible  to  die  that  way  —  not  a  chance  in  a  thou 
sand.  And  a  kid  of  sixteen  didn't  have  the  judg 
ment  —  couldn't  have.  But  Bill  knew  what  he  was 
facing  every  evening.  He  didn't  go  in  blindly. 


214*  DUST 

They'll  blame  me,  as  though  it  was  my  fault.  I 
didn't  want  him  to  go  there.  I  wanted  him  to  take 
a  hand  here,  to  run  the  place  by  himself  in  good 
time.  It  was  his  mother  who  sent  him  away  first." 
He  went  on  like  that,  justifying  himself  more  posi 
tively  as  excuse  after  excuse  suggested  itself. 

Not  until  he  had  convinced  himself  that  he  was 
in  no  way  responsible,  did  he  allow  his  heart  to  beat 
a  little  for  this  boy  of  his.  "Poor  Bill,"  he  thought 
on,  "it  has  been  a  tough  game  for  him.  Lost  in  the 
shuffle.  Born  into  something  he  didn't  like  and  try 
ing  to  escape,  only  to  get  caught.  What  did  he  ex 
pect  out  of  life,  anyway?  Why  didn't  he  learn  that 
it's  only  a  lot  of  senseless  pain?  Every  moment  of 
it  pain  —  from  coming  into  the  world  to  going  out. 
Oh,  Bill,  why  didn't  you  learn  what  I  know?  You 
had  brains,  boy,  but  it  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  never  used  them.  I've  brains,  too,  but  I've 
always  managed  to  keep  them  tied  down  —  buckled 
to  the  farm,  to  investments,  and  work  —  thinking 
about  things  that  make  us  forget  life.  It's  all  dust 
and  dust,  with  rain  once  in  a  while,  only  the  rain 
steams  off  and  it's  dust  again." 

Martin  began  to  review  the  course  of  his  own 
past,  and  smiled  bitterly.  Others  were  able  to  live 
the  same  kind  of  an  existence,  but,  unlike  himself, 
took  it  as  a  preparation  for  another  day,  another 


MARTIN'S   SON    SHAKES   THE   DUST     215 

existence  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  measured 
and  cut  to  order  by  professionals  who  understood 
how  to  fix  up  the  meaning  of  life  so  that  it  would 
soothe  and  satisfy.  He  thought  how  much  better 
it  was  to  be  a  dumb,  unquestioning  beast,  or  a  hu 
man  being  conscious  of  his  soul,  than  to  be  as  he 
was  —  alone,  a  materialist,  who  saw  the  meaning- 
lessness  of  matter  and  whose  mind,  in  some  manner 
which  he  did  not  understand,  had  developed  a  slant 
that  made  him  doubt  what  others  accepted  so  easily 
as  facts.  Martin  knew  he  was  bound  to  things  of 
substance  but  he  followed  the  lure  of  property  and 
accumulation  as  he  might  have  followed  some  other 
game  had  he  learned  it,  knowing  all  along  that  it 
was  a  delusion  and  at  the  same  time  acknowledging 
that  for  him  there  was  nothing  else  as  sufficing. 

How  simple,  if  Bill's  future  could  be  a  settled 
thing  in  his  mind  as  it  was  to  the  boy's  mother.  Or 
his  own  future!  If  only  he  could  believe  —  then 
how  different  it  would  be  for  him.  He  could  go  on 
placidly  and  die  with  a  smile.  But  he  could  not 
believe.  His  atheism  was  both  mental  and  instinc 
tive.  It  was  something  he  could  not  understand, 
and  which  he  knew  he  could  never  change,  try  as 
he  might.  Take  this  very  evening.  Here  was  death 
in  his  home.  And  he  was  escaping  a  lot  of  anguish, 
not  by  praying  for  Bill's  soul  or  his  own  forgiveness, 


216  DUST 

but  by  the  simple  process  of  harnessing  a  team  and 
dragging  a  car  through  the  mud.  It  was  a  great 
game,  work  was  —  the  one  weapon  with  which  to 
meet  life.  This  was  not  a  cut  and  dried  philosophy 
with  him,  but  a  glimmer  that,  though  always  sug 
gesting  itself  but  dimly,  never  failed  when  put  to 
the  test.  Martin  felt  better.  He  began  to  probe  a 
little  farther,  albeit  with  an  aimlessness  about  his 
questions  that  almost  frightened  him.  He  asked 
himself  whether  he  loved  Bill,  now  that  he  was  dead, 
and  he  had  to  admit  that  he  did  not.  The  boy  had 
always  been  something  other  than  he  had  expected 
—  a  disappointment.  Did  he  love  anyone?  No. 
Not  a  person ;  not  even  any  longer  that  lovely  Rose 
of  Sharon  who  had  flowered  in  his  dust  for  a  brief 
hour.  His  wife?  God  Almighty,  no.  Then  who? 
Himself?  No,  his  very  selfishness  had  other  springs 
than  that.  He  was  one  of  those  men,  not  so  un 
common  either,  he  surmised,  who  loved  no  one  on 
the  whole  wide  earth. 

When  he  re-entered  the  house,  he  found  his  wife 
still  seated  in  the  rocker,  softly  weeping,  the  tears 
flowing  down  her  cheeks  and  dropping  unheeded  into 
her  lap.  He  pitied  her. 

"I  feel  as  though  he  didn't  die  tonight,"  she 
mourned,  looking  at  Martin  through  full  eyes.  "He 
died  when  he  was  born,  like  the  first  one." 


MARTIN'S   SON   SHAKES   THE   DUST     217 

"I  know  how  you  feel,"  said  Martin,  sympathy  in 
his  voice. 

"I  made  him  so  many  promises  before  he  came, 
but  I  wasn't  able  to  keep  a  single  one  of  them." 

"I'm  sorry;  I  wish  I  could  help  you  in  some  way." 

"Oh,  Martin,  I  know  you're  not  a  praying  man  — 
but  if  you  could  only  learn." 

Martin  looked  at  her  respectfully  but  with  pro 
found  curiosity. 

"There  must  be  an  answer  to  all  this,"  Rose  went 
on  brokenly.  "There  must!  Billy  is  lying  in  the 
arms  of  Jesus  now  —  no  pain,  only  sweet  rest.  I 
believe  that." 

"I'm  glad  you  have  the  faith  that  can  put  such 
meaning  into  it  all." 

"Martin,  I  want  to  pray  for  strength  to  bear  it." 

"Yes,  Rose." 

"You'll  pray  with  me,  won't  you?" 

"You  just  said  I  wasn't  a  praying  man." 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  pray  alone,  with  him  in  there 
alone,  too,  and  you  here  with  me,  scoffing." 

"I  can't  be  other  than  I  am,  Rose;  but  you  pray, 
and  as  you  pray  I'll  bow  my  head." 


X 
INTO   THE   DUST-BIN 


X 

INTO    THE   DUST-BIN 

WITH  the  loss  of  her  boy,  time  ceased  to 
exist  for  Rose.  The  days  came  and  went, 
lengthening  into  years,  full  of  duties, 
leaving  her  as  they  found  her,  outwardly  little 
changed  and  habitually  calm  and  kind,  but  inwardly 
sunk  in  apathy.  She  moved  as  if  in  a  dream,  seem 
ing  to  live  in  a  strange  world  that  would  never  again 
seem  real  —  this  world  without  Billy.  Occasionally, 
she  would  forget  and  think  he  was  out  in  the  field 
or  down  in  the  mine;  more  rarely  still,  she  would 
slip  even  further  backward  and  wonder  what  he  was 
about  in  his  play.  During  these  moments  she  would 
feel  normal,  but  some  object  catching  her  eye  would 
jerk  her  back  to  the  present  and  the  cruel  truth. 
She  and  Martin  had  less  than  ever  to  say  to  each 
other,  though  in  his  own  grim  way  he  was  more 
thoughtful,  giving  her  to  understand  that  there  were 
no  longer  any  restrictions  laid  upon  her  purchasing, 
and  even  suggesting  that  they  remodel  the  house; 
as  if,  she  thought  impassively,  at  this  late  day,  it 

221 


222  DUST 

could  matter  what  she  bought  or  in  what  she  lived. 
His  one  interest  in  making  money,  just  as  if  they 
had  some  one  to  leave  it  to,  puzzled  her.  Always 
investing,  then  reinvesting  the  interest,  and  spend 
ing  comparatively  little  of  his  income,  his  fortune 
had  now  reached  the  point  where  it  was  growing 
rapidly  of  its  own  momentum  and,  as  there  was 
nothing  to  which  he  looked  forward,  nothing  he  par 
ticularly  wanted  to  do,  he  set  himself  the  task  of 
making  it  cross  the  half  million  mark,  much  as  a 
man  plays  solitaire,  to  occupy  his  mind,  betting 
against  himself,  to  give  point  to  his  efforts. 

Yet,  it  gave  him  a  most  disconcerting,  uncanny 
start,  when  one  bright  winter  day,  he  faced  the  fact 
that  he,  too,  was  about  to  be  shovelled  into  the  great 
dust-bin.  Death  was  actually  at  his  side,  his  long, 
bony  finger  on  his  shoulder  and  whispering  imper 
sonally,  "You're  next."  "Very  much/'  thought  Mar 
tin,  "like  a  barber  on  a  busy  Saturday."  How  odd 
that  here  was  something  that  had  never  entered 
into  his  schemes,  his  carefully  worked  out  plans!  It 
seemed  so  unfair  —  why,  he  had  been  feeling  so 
well,  his  business  had  been  going  on  so  profitably, 
there  was  something  so  substantial  to  the  jog  of  his 
life,  there  seemed  to  be  something  of  the  eternal 
about  it.  He  had  taken  ten-year  mortgages  but  a 
few  days  ago,  and  had  bought  two  thousand  dollars' 


INTO   THE    DUST-BIN  223 

worth  of  twenty-year  Oklahoma  municipals  when 
he  could  have  taken  an  earlier  issue  which  he  had 
rejected  as  maturing  too  soon.  He  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  a  stranger  who  comes  but  once,  and 
now  that  he  was  here,  Martin  felt  that  a  mean  trick 
had  been  played  on  him.  He  cogitated  on  the 
journey  he  was  to  take,  and  it  made  him  not  afraid, 
but  angry.  It  was  a  shabby  deal  —  that's  what  it 
was  —  when  he  was  so  healthy  and  contented,  only 
sixty-one  and  ready  to  go  on  for  decades  —  two  or 
three  at  least  —  forced,  instead,  to  prepare  to  lay 
himself  in  a  padded  box  and  be  hurriedly  packed 
away.  It  had  always  seemed  so  vague,  this  business 
of  dying,  and  now  it  was  so  personal  —  he,  Martin 
Wade,  himself,  not  somebody  else,  would  suffer  a 
little  while  longer  and  then  grow  still  forever. 

He  would  never  know  how  sure  a  breeder  was  his 
new  bull  —  the  son  of  that  fine  creature  he  had  im 
ported;  two  cows  he  had  spotted  as  not  paying  their 
board  could  go  on  for  months  eating  good  alfalfa 
and  bran  before  a  new  herdsman  might  become  con 
vinced  of  their  unreadiness  to  turn  the  expensive 
feed  into  white  gold;  he  had  not  written  down  the 
dates  when  the  sows  were  to  farrow,  and  they  might 
have  litters  somewhere  around  the  strawstack  and 
crush  half  the  little  pigs.  His  one  hundred  and 
seventy-five  acres  of  wheat  had  had  north  and  south 


224  DUST 

dead  furrows,  but  he  had  learned  that  this  was  a 
mistake  in  probably  half  the  acreage,  where  they 
should  be  east  and  west.  It  would  make  a  great 
difference  in  the  drainage,  but  a  new  plowman  might 
think  this  finickiness  and  just  go  ahead  and  plow 
all  of  it  north  and  south,  or  all  of  it  east  and  west 
and  this  would  result  in  a  lower  yield  —  some  parts 
of  the  field  would  get  soggy  and  the  wheat  might 
get  a  rust,  and  other  parts  drain  too  readily,  letting 
the  ground  become  parched  and  break  into  cakes, 
all  of  which  might  be  prevented.  And  there  was 
all  that  manure,  maker  of  big  crops.  He  knew  only 
too  well  how  other  farmers  let  it  pile  up  in  the  barn 
yard  to  be  robbed  by  the  sun  of  probably  twenty 
per  cent  of  its  strength.  He  figured  quickly  how  it 
would  hurt  the  crops  that  he  had  made  traditional 
on  Wade  land.  He  considered  these  things,  and  they 
worried  him,  made  him  realize  what  a  serious  thing 
was  death,  far  more  serious  than  the  average  person 
let  himself  believe. 

Martin  had  gone  to  the  barn  a  week  before  to  help 
a  cow  which  was  aborting.  It  had  enraged  him  when 
he  thought  what  an  alarming  thing  this  was  — 
abortion  among  his  cows  —  in  Martin  Wade's  beau 
tiful  herd!  "God  Almighty!"  he  had  exclaimed, 
deciding  as  he  took  the  calf  from  the  mother  to 
begin  doctoring  her  at  once.  He  would  fight  this 


INTO   THE    DUST-BIN  225 

disease  before  it  could  establish  a  hold.  Locking 
the  cow's  head  in  an  iron  stanchion,  he  had  shed  his 
coat,  rolled  up  his  right  sleeve  almost  to  the  shoul 
der,  washed  his  hand  and  arm  in  a  solution  of  car 
bolic  and  hot  water,  carefully  examining  them  to 
make  sure  there  was  no  abrasion  of  any  kind.  But 
despite  his  caution,  a  tiny  cut  so  small  that  it  had 
escaped  his  searching,  had  come  in  contact  with  the 
infected  mucous  membrane  and  blood  poisoning  had 
set  in.  And  here  he  was,  lying  in  bed,  given  up  by 
Doctor  Bradley  and  the  younger  men  the  older 
physician  had  called  into  consultation  and  who  had 
tried  in  vain  to  stem  the  spread  of  poison  through 
his  system.  Martin  was  going  to  die,  and  no  power 
could  save  him.  The  irony  of  it!  This  farm  to 
which  he  had  devoted  his  life  was  taking  it  from 
him  by  a  member  of  its  herd. 

Martin  made  a  wry  little  grimace  of  amusement 
as  he  realized  suddenly  that  even  at  the  very  gate  of 
death  it  was  still  on  life,  his  life,  that  his  thoughts 
dwelt.  In  these  last  moments,  it  was  the  tedious, 
but  stimulating,  battle  of  existence  that  really  occu 
pied  his  full  attention.  He  would  cling  to  it  until 
the  last  snap  of  the  thin  string.  This  cavern  of  ob 
livion  that  was  awaiting  him,  that  he  must  enter  — 
it  was  black  and  now  more  than  ever  his  deep, 
simple  irreligion  refused  to  let  fairy  tales  pacify  him 


226  DUST 

with  the  belief  that  beyond  it  was  everlasting  day 
light.  Scepticism  was  not  only  in  his  conscious 
thought  but  in  the  very  tissues  of  his  mind. 

He  remembered  how  his  own  father  had  died  on 
this  farm  —  he  had  had  no  possessions  to  think 
about ;  only  his  loved  ones,  his  wife  and  his  children ; 
but  he  had  brought  them  here  that  they  might 
amass  property  out  of  Martin's  sweat  and  the  dust 
of  the  prairie.  Now  he,  the  son,  dying,  had  in 
his  mind  no  thought  of  people,  but  of  this  land  and 
of  stock  and  of  things.  And  how  strangely  his  mind 
was  reacting  to  it.  His  concern  was  not  who  should 
own  them  all,  but  what  would  actually  be  the  fate 
of  each  individual  property  child  of  his.  Why,  he 
had  not  even  written  a  will.  It  would  all  go  to  his 
wife,  of  course,  and  how  little  he  cared  to  whom 
she  left  it.  He  would  have  liked,  perhaps,  to  have 
given  Rose  Mall  twenty-five  thousand  or  so  —  so 
she  could  always  be  independent  of  that  young  hus 
band  of  hers  —  snap  her  fingers  at  him  if  he  got  to 
driving  her  too  hard,  and  crushing  out  the  flower- 
like  quality  of  her  —  but  his  wife  wouldn't  have  un 
derstood,  and  he  had  hurt  her  enough,  in  all 
conscience.  The  one  thing  he  might  have  enjoyed 
doing,  he  couldn't.  Outside  of  that  he  didn't  care 
who  got  it.  She  could  leave  it  to  whomever  she  liked 
when  her  turn  came.  Not  to  whom  it  went,  but 


INTO   THE   DUST-BIN  227 

what  would  happen  to  it  —  that  was  what  concerned 
him. 

By  his  side,  Rose,  sitting  so  motionless  that  he 
was  scarcely  conscious  of  her  presence,  was  dying 
with  him.  With  that  peculiar  gift  of  profoundly 
sympathetic  natures  she  was  thinking  and  feeling 
much  of  what  he  was  experiencing.  It  seemed  to 
her  heart-breaking  that  Martin  must  be  forced  to 
abandon  the  only  things  for  which  he  cared.  He 
had  even  sacrificed  his  lovely  Rose  of  Sharon  for 
them  —  she  had  never  been  in  any  doubt  as  to  the 
reason  for  that  sudden  emotional  retreat  of  his  seven 
years  before.  And  she  knew  his  one  thought  now 
must  be  for  their  successful  administration. 

He  had  worked  so  hard  always  and  yet  had  had 
so  little  happiness,  so  little  real  brightness  out  of 
life.  She  felt,  generously,  with  a  clutching  ache, 
that  with  all  the  disappointments  she  had  suffered 
through  him  —  from  his  first  broken  promises  about 
the  house  to  his  lack  of  understanding  of  their  boy 
which  had  resulted  in  Billy's  death  —  with  even 
that,  she  had  salvaged  so  much  more  out  of  living 
than  he.  A  great  compassion  swelled  within  her; 
all  the  black  moments,  all  the  long,  gray  hours  of 
their  years  together,  seemed  suddenly  insignificant. 
She  saw  him  again  as  he  had  been  the  day  he  had 
proposed  marriage  to  her  and  for  the  first  time  she 


228  DUST 

was  sure  that  she  could  interpret  the  puzzling  look 
that  had  come  into  his  eyes  when  she  had  asked  him 
why  he  thought  she  could  make  him  happy.  What 
had  he  understood  about  happiness?  With  a  noise 
less  sob,  she  remembered  that  he  had  answered  her 
in  terms  of  the  only  thing  he  had  understood  — 
work.  And  she  saw  him  again,  too,  as  he  had  been 
the  night  he  had  so  bluntly  told  her  of  his  passion 
for  Rose.  It  seemed  to  her  now,  free  of  all  rancor, 
unutterably  tragic  that  the  only  person  Martin  had 
loved  should  have  come  into  his  life  too  late. 

He  was  not  to  be  blamed  because  he  had  never 
been  able  to  care  for  herself.    He  should  never  have 
asked  her  to  marry  him  — and  yet,  they  had  not 
been  such  bad  partners.    It  would  have  been  so  easy 
for  her  to  love  him.     She  had  loved  him  until  he 
had  killed  her  boy;  since  then,  all  her  old  affection 
had  withered.    But  if  it  really  had  done  so  why  was 
she  so  racked  now?    She  felt,  desperately,  that  she 
could  not  let  him  go  until  he  had  had  some  real  joy. 
To  think  that  she  used   to  plan,   cold-bloodedly, 
when  Billy  was  little,  all  she  would  do  if  only  Mar 
tin  should  happen  to  die!    The  memory  of  it  smote 
her  as  with  a  blow.    She  looked  down  at  the  power 
ful  hand  lying  so  passively,  almost,  she  would  have 
said,  contentedly,  in  her  own.    How  she  had  yearned 
for  the  comfort  of  it  when  her  children  were  born. 


INTO   THE    DUST-BIN  229 

She  wondered  if  Martin  realized  her  touch,  if  it 
helped  a  little.  If  it  had  annoyed  him,  he  would 
have  said  so.  It  came  to  her  oddly  that  in  all  the 
twenty-seven  years  she  and  her  husband  had  been 
married  this  was  the  very  first  time  he  had  let  her 
be  tender  to  him.  Oh,  his  life  had  been  bleak. 
Bleak!  And  she  with  such  tenderness  in  her  heart. 
It  hadn't  been  right.  From  the  depths  of  her  re 
bellion  and  forgiveness,  slow  tears  rose.  Feeling  too 
intensely,  too  mentally,  to  be  conscious  of  them  she 
sat  unmoving  as  they  rolled  one  by  one  down  her 
cheeks  and  dropped  unheeded. 

"Rose,"  he  called  with  a  soft  hoarseness,  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

"Yes,  Martin,"  and  she  gave  his  fingers  a  slight 
squeeze  as  though  to  convince  him  that  she  was 
there  at  his  side.  He  felt  relieved.  It  was  good  to 
feel  her  hand  and  be  sure  that  if  his  body  were  to 
give  its  final  sign  that  life  had  slipped  away  some 
one  would  be  there  to  know  the  very  second  it 
had  happened.  It  was  a  satisfactory  way  to  die; 
it  took  a  little  of  the  loneliness  away  from  the 
experience. 

"Rose/'  he  repeated.  It  sounded  so  new,  the 
yearning  tone  in  which  he  said  it  —  "Rose!"  It 
hurt.  "Isn't  it  funny,  Rose,  to  go  like  this  —  not 
sick,  no  accident  —  just  dying  without  any  real 


230  DUST 

reason  except  that  I  absorbed  the  poison  through  a 
cut  so  small  my  eyes  couldn't  see  it." 

"It's  a  mystery,  dear/'  the  little  word  limped  out 
awkwardly,  "but  God's  ways  are  not  ours." 

"Not  a  mystery,"  he  corrected,  "just  a  heap  of 
tricks;  funny  ones,  sad  ones,  sensible  ones,  and 
crazy  ones  —  and  of  all  the  crazy  ones  this  is  ths. 
worst.  But,  what's  the  use?  If  there's  a  God,  as 
you  believe,  it  doesn't  do  any  good  to  argue  with 
Him,  and  if  it's  as  I  think  and  there's  no  God,  there's 
no  one  to  argue  with.  But  never  mind  about  that 
now  —  it's  no  matter.  You'll  listen  carefully,  won't 
you,  Rose?" 

"Yes,  Martin." 

"This  abortion  in  the  herd.  You  know  what  a 
terrible  thing  it  is." 

"I  certainly  do;  it's  the  cause  of  your  leaving  me/' 

"Rose,  I  know  you'll  be  busy  during  the  next  few 
days  —  me  dying,  the  things  that  have  to  be  ar 
ranged,  the  funeral  and  all  that.  But  when  it's  all 
over,  you'll  let  that  be  the  first  thing,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  the  very  first  thing,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  do.  Get  Dr.  Hurton  on  the  job  at  once,  and 
have  him  fight  it.  He  knows  his  business.  Let  him 
come  twice  a  day  until  he's  sure  it's  out  of  the  herd. 
Keep  that  new  bull  out  of  the  pasture.  And  if 
Hurton  can't  clean  it  up,  you'd  better  get  rid  of  the 


INTO   THE   DUST-BIN  231 

herd  before  it  gets  known  around  the  country.  You 
know  how  news  of  that  kind  travels.  Don't  try  to 
handle  the  sale  yourself.  If  you  do,  it'll  be  a  mis 
take.  The  prices  will  be  low  if  you  get  only  a  county 
crowd." 

"Neighbors  usually  bid  low/'  she  agreed. 

"Run  up  to  Topeka  and  see  Baker  —  he's  the 
sales  manager  of  the  Holstein  Breeders'  Association. 
Let  him  take  charge  of  it  all  —  he's  a  straight  fellow. 
He'll  charge  you  enough  —  fifteen  per  cent  of  the 
gross  receipts,  but  then  he'll  see  to  it  that  the  people 
who  want  good  stuff  will  be  there.  He  knows  how 
and  where  to  advertise.  He's  got  a  big  list  of  names, 
and  can  send  out  letters  to  the  people  that  count. 
He'll  bring  buyers  from  Iowa  down  to  Texas.  Re 
member  his  name  —  Baker." 

"Yes,  Martin  —  Baker." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  sell  the  herd  anyway,"  he 
went  on.  "I  know  you,  Rose;  you'll  be  careless 
about  the  papers  —  no  woman  ever  realizes  how  im 
portant  it  is  to  have  the  facts  for  the  certificates  of 
registry  and  transfer  just  right.  Tm  afraid  you'll 
fall  down  there  and  get  the  records  mixed.  You 
won't  get  the  dates  exact  and  the  name  and  number 
of  each  dam  and  sire.  Women  are  all  alike  there  — 
they  never  seem  to  realize  that  a  purebred  without 
papers  is  just  a  good  grade." 


232  DUST 

Rose  made  no  comment,  while  Martin  changed 
his  position  slowly  and  lost  himself  in  thought. 

"Yes,  I  guess  it's  the  only  thing  to  do —  to  get 
rid  of  the  purebred  stuff.  God  Almighty!  It's 
taken  me  long  enough  to  build  up  that  herd,  but 
a  few  weeks  from  now  they'll  be  scattered  to  the 
four  winds.  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  Try  to  sell 
them  to  men  who  understand  something  of  their 
value.  And  that  reminds  me,  Rose.  You  always 
speak  of  them  as  thoroughbreds.  It  always  did  get 
on  my  nerves.  That's  right  for  horses,  but  try  to 
remember  that  cows  are  purebreds.  You'll  make 
that  mistake  before  men  who  know.  Those  little 
things  are  important.  Remember  it,  won't  you?" 

"Thoroughbred  for  a  horse,  and  purebred  for  a 
cow,"  Rose  repeated  willingly. 

"When  you  get  your  money  for  the  stock  put  it 
into  mortgages  —  first  mortgages,  not  seconds.  Let 
that  be  a  principle  with  you.  Many  a  holder  of  a 
second  mortgage  has  been  left  to  hold  the  sack.  You 
must  remember  that  the  first  mortgage  comes  in 
for  the  first  claim  after  taxes,  and  if  the  foreclosure 
doesn't  bring  enough  to  satisfy  more  than  that,  the 
second  mortgage  is  sleeping  on  its  rights." 

"First  mortgages,  not  seconds,"  said  Rose. 

"And  while  I'm  on  that,  let  me  warn  you  about 
Alex  Tracy,  four  miles  north  and  a  half  mile  east,  on 


INTO   THE    DUST-BIN  233 

the  west  side  of  the  road.  He's  a  slippery  cuss  and 
you'll  have  to  watch  him." 

"Alex  Tracy,  four  miles  north — " 

"You'll  find  my  mortgage  for  thirty-seven  htji- 
dred  in  my  box  at  the  bank.  He's  two  coupons  be 
hind  in  his  interest.  I  made  him  give  me  a  chattel 
on  his  growing  corn.  Watch  him  —  he's  treacherous. 
He  may  think  he  can  sneak  around  because  you're 
a  woman  and  stall  you.  He's  just  likely  to  turn  his 
hogs  into  that  corn.  Your  chattel  is  for  growing 
corn,  not  for  corn  in  a  hog's  belly.  If  he  tries  any 
dirty  business  get  the  sheriff  after  him." 

"It's  on  the  growing  corn/'  said  Rose. 

"And  here's  another  important  point  —  taxes. 
Don't  pay  any  taxes  on  mortgages.  What's  the  use 
of  giving  the  politicians  more  money  to  waste?  Hold 
on  to  your  bank  stock  and  arrange  to  have  all 
mortgages  in  the  name  of  the  bank,  not  in  your  own. 
They  pay  taxes  on  their  capital  and  surplus,  not  on 
their  loans.  But  be  sure  to  get  a  written  acknowl 
edgment  on  each  mortgage  from  Osborne.  He's 
square,  but  you  can't  ever  tell  what  changes  might 
take  place  and  then  there  might  be  some  question 
about  mortgages  in  the  bank's  name." 

"Keep  them  in  the  bank's  name,"  said  Rose. 

"And  a  written  acknowledgment,"  Martin 
stressed. 


234  DUST 

"A  written  acknowledgment/'  she  echoed. 

For  probably  fifteen  minutes  he  lay  without 
further  talk;  then,  a  little  more  weariness  in  his 
voice  than  she  had  ever  known  before,  he  began  to 
speak  again. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal,  Rose."  There 
was  still  that  new  tenderness  in  the  manner  in  which 
he  pronounced  her  name,  that  new  tone  she  had 
never  heard  before  and  which  caused  her  to  feel  a 
little  nervous.  "I've  been  thinking,  Rose,  about  the 
years  we've  lived  together  here  on  a  Kansas  prairie 
farm—" 

"It  lacks  just  a  few  months  of  being  twenty-eight 
years,"  she  added. 

"Yes,  it  sounds  like  a  long  time  when  you  put  it 
that  way,  but  it  doesn't  seem  any  longer  than  a 
short  sigh  to  me  lying  here.  I've  been  thinking, 
Rose,  how  you've  always  got  it  over  to  me  that  you 
loved  me  or  could  love  me  — " 

"I've  always  loved  you,  Martin  —  deeply." 

"Yes,  that's  what's  always  made  me  so  hard  with 
you.  It  would  have  been  far  better  for  you  if  you 
hadn't  cared  for  me  at  all.  I've  never  loved  any 
body,  not  even  my  own  mother,  nor  Bill,  nor  myself 
for  that  matter."  Their  eyes  shifted  away  from  each 
other  quickly  as  both  thought  of  one  other  whom  he 
did  not  mention.  "I  wasn't  made  that  way,  Rose. 


INTO   THE   DUST-BIN  235 

Now  you  could  love  anything  —  lots  of  women  are 
like  that,  and  men,  too.  But  I  wasn't.  Life  to  me 
has  always  been  a  strange  world  that  I  never  got 
over  thinking  about  and  trying  to  understand,  and 
at  the  same  time  hustling  to  get  through  with  every 
day  of  it  as  fast  as  I  could  by  keeping  at  the  only 
thing  I  knew  which  would  make  it  all  more  bearable. 
There's  a  lot  of  pain  in  work,  but  it's  only  of  the 
muscles  and  my  pain  has  always  been  in  the  things 
I've  thought  about.  The  awful  waste  and  futility  of 
it  all !  Take  this  farm  —  I  came  here  when  this  was 
hardly  more  than  a  desert.  You  ought  to  have  seen 
how  thick  the  dust  was  the  first  day  we  got  down 
here.  And  I've  built  up  this  place.  You've  helped 
me.  Bill  didn't  care  for  it  —  even  if  he  had  lived, 
he'd  never  have  stayed  here.  But  you  do,  in  spite 
of  all  that's  happened." 

"Yes,  Martin,  I  do,"  she  returned  fervently.  "It's 
a  wonderful  monument  to  leave  behind  you  —  this 
farm  is." 

His  eyes  grew  somber.  "That's  what  I've  always 
thought  it  would  be,"  he  answered,  very  low.  "I've 
felt  as  if  I  was  building  something  that  would  last. 
Even  the  barns  —  they're  ready  to  stand  for  genera 
tions.  But  this  minute,  when  the  end  is  sitting  at 
the  foot  of  this  bed,  I  seem  to  see  it  all  crumbling 
before  me.  You  won't  stay  here.  Why  should  you 


236  DUST 

—  even  if  you  do  for  a  few  years  you'll  have  to  leave 
it  sometime,  and  there's  nothing  that  goes  to  rack 
and  ruin  as  quickly  as  a  farm  —  even  one  like  this." 

"Oh,  Martin,  don't  think  such  thoughts/'  she 
begged.  "Your  fever  is  coming  up;  I  can  see  it." 

"What  has  it  all  been  about,  that's  what  I  want 
to  know,"  he  went  on  with  quiet  cynicism.  "What 
have  I  been  sweating  about  —  nothing.  What  is 
anyone's  life?  No  more  than  mine.  We're  all  like 
a  lot  of  hens  in  a  backyard,  scratching  so  many  hours 
a  day.  Some  scratch  a  little  deeper  than  those  who 
aren't  so  skilled  or  so  strong.  And  when  I  stand  off 
a  little,  it's  all  alike.  The  end  is  as  blind  and  sense 
less  as  the  beginning  on  this  farm  — drought  and 
dust." 

Martin  closed  his  eyes  wearily  and  gave  a  deep 
sigh.  To  his  wife's  quickened  ears,  it  was  charged 
with  lingering  regret  for  frustrated  plans  and  pal 
pitant  with  his  consciousness  of  life's  evanescence 
and  of  the  futility  of  his  own  success. 

She  waited  patiently  for  him  to  continue  his  in 
structions,  but  the  opiates  had  begun  to  take  effect 
and  Martin  lapsed  into  sleep.  Although  he  lived 
until  the  next  morning,  he  never  again  regained  full 
consciousness. 


XI 

THE   DUST   SETTLES 


XI 
THE  DUST  SETTLES 

ROSE'S  grief  was  a  surprise  to  herself;  there 
was  no  blinking  the  fact  that  her  life  was 
going  to  be  far  more  disrupted  by  Martin's 
death  than  it  had  been  by  Bill's.  There  were  other 
differences.  Where  that  loss  had  struck  her  numb, 
this  quickened  every  sensibility,  drove  her  into  ac 
tion;  more  than  that,  as  she  realized  how  much  less 
there  was  to  regret  in  the  boy's  life  than  in  his 
father's,  how  much  more  he  had  got  out  of  his  few 
short  years,  the  edge  of  the  older,  more  precious 
sorrow,  dulled.  During  quite  long  periods  she  would 
be  so  absorbed  in  her  thoughts  of  Martin  that  Bill 
would  not  enter  her  mind.  Was  it  possible,  that  this 
husband  who  with  his  own  lips  had  confessed  he  had 
never  loved  her,  had  been  a  more  integral  part  of 
herself  than  the  son  who  had  adored  her?  What 
was  this  bond  that  had  roots  deeper  than  love?  Was 
it  merely  because  they  had  grown  so  used  to  each 
other  that  she  felt  as  if  half  of  her  had  been  torn 
away  and  buried,  leaving  her  crippled  and  helpless? 
Probably  it  would  have  been  different  if  Bill  had 

239 


240  DUST 

been  living.  Was  it  because  when  he  had  died,  she 
still  had  had  Martin,  demanding,  vital,  to  goad  her 
on  and  give  the  semblance  of  a  point  to  her  life,  and 
now  she  was  left  alone,  adrift?  She  pondered  over 
these  questions,  broodingly. 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  sell  out,  Rose,"  Nellie's 
husband,  Bert  Mall,  big  and  cordial  as  Peter  had 
been  before  him,  suggested  a  day  or  two  after  the 
funeral.  "I'll  try  to  get  you  a  buyer,  or  would  you 
rather  rent?" 

"I  haven't  any  plans  yet,  Bert,"  Mrs.  Wade  had 
evaded  adroitly,  "it's  all  happened  so  quickly.  I 
have  plenty  of  time  and  there  are  lots  of  things  to  be 
seen  to."  There  had  been  that  in  her  voice  which 
had  forbidden  discussion,  and  it  was  a  tone  to  which 
she  was  forced  to  have  recourse  more  than  once  dur 
ing  the  following  days  when  it  seemed  to  her  that 
all  her  friends  were  in  a  conspiracy  to  persuade  her 
to  a  hasty,  ill-advised  upheaval. 

Nothing,  she  resolved,  should  push  her  from  this 
farm  or  into  final  decisions  until  a  year  had  passed. 
She  must  have  something  to  which  she  could  cling 
if  it  were  nothing  more  than  a  familiar  routine. 
Without  that  to  sustain  and  support  her,  she  felt 
she  could  never  meet  the  responsibilities  which  had 
suddenly  descended,  with  such  a  terrific  impact, 
upon  her  shoulders. 


THE    DUST    SETTLES  241 

In  an  inexplicable  way,  these  new  burdens,  her 
black  dress  —  the  first  silk  one  since  the  winter  be 
fore  Billy  came  —  and  the  softening  folds  of  her  veil, 
all  invested  her  with  a  new  and  touching  majesty 
that  seemed  to  set  her  a  little  apart  from  her 
neighbors. 

Nellie  had  been  frankly  scandalized  at  the  idea 
of  mourning.  "Nobody  does  that  out  here  — ex- 
ceptin'  during  the  services/'  she  had  said  sharply  to 
her  daughter-in-law  when  Rose  had  told  her  of  the 
hasty  trip  she  and  her  aunt  had  made  to  the  largest 
town  in  the  county.  "Folks'll  think  it's  funny 
and  kind  o'  silly.  You  oughtn't  to  have  encour 
aged  it." 

"Oh,  Mother  Mall,  I  didn't  especially,"  the 
younger  woman  had  protested.  "She  just  said  in 
that  quiet,  settled  way  she  has,  that  she  was  going 
to  —  she  thought  it  would  be  easier  for  her.  And 
I  believe  it  will,  too,"  she  added,  feeling  how  pa 
thetic  it  was  that  Aunt  Rose  had  never  looked  half 
so  well  during  Uncle  Martin's  life  as  she  had  since 
his  death. 

"Oh,  well,"  Mall  commented,  "Rose  always  was 
sort  of  sentimental,  but  there's  not  many  like  her. 
She's  right  to  take  her  time,  too.  It'll  be  six  or 
eight  months,  anyway,  before  she  can  get  things 
lined  up.  She's  got  a  longer  head  than  a  body'd 


242  DUST 

think  for.  Look  at  the  way  she  run  that  newspaper 
office  when  old  Conroy  died." 

"That  was  nearly  thirty  years  ago,"  commented 
his  wife  crisply,  "and  Rose's  got  so  used  to  being 
bossed  around  by  Martin  that  she'll  find  it  ain't  so 
easy  to  go  ahead  on  her  own." 

With  her  usual  shrewdness,  Nellie  had  surmised 
the  chief  difficulty,  but  it  dwindled  in  real  impor 
tance  because  of  the  fact  that  Rose  so  frequently 
had  the  feeling  that  Martin  merely  had  gone  on  a 
journey  and  would  come  home  some  day,  expecting 
an  exact  accounting  of  her  stewardship.  His  in 
structions  were  to  her  living  instructions  which  must 
be  carried  out  to  the  letter. 

She  had  attended  with  conscientious  promptness 
to  checking  the  trouble  that  had  brought  about  his 
death.  "I  promised  Mr.  Wade  it  should  be  the  first 
thing,"  she  had  explained  to  Dr.  Hurton.  'You'll 
let  it  be  the  first  thing,  won't  you?'  Those  were  his 
very  words.  He  depended  on  us,  Doctor." 

When  the  time  came  to  plan  definitely  for  the 
disposal  of  the  purebred  herd,  she  went  herself  to 
Topeka  to  arrange  details  with  Baker.  She  was  con 
stantly  thinking:  "Now,  what  would  Martin  say  to 
this?"  or  "Would  he  approve  of  that?"  And  her 
conclusions  were  reached  accordingly.  The  sale 
itself  was  an  event  that  was  discussed  in  Fallen 


THE    DUST    SETTLES  243 

County  for  years  afterwards.  The  hotel  was  crowded 
with  out-of-town  buyers.  Enthused  by  the  music 
from  two  bands,  even  the  local  people  bid  high,  and 
through  it  all,  Rose,  vigilant,  remembered  every 
thing  Martin  would  have  wanted  remembered.  She 
felt  that  even  he  would  have  been  satisfied  with  the 
manner  in  which  the  whole  transaction  was  handled, 
and  with  the  financial  results. 

She  began  to  take  a  new  pleasure  in  everything, 
the  nervous  pleasure  one  takes  when  going  through 
an  experience  for  what  may  be  the  last  time.  The 
threshing —  how  often  she  had  toiled  and  sweated 
over  those  three  days  of  dinners  and  suppers  for 
twenty-two  men.  Now  she  recalled,  with  an  aching 
tightness  about  her  heart,  how  delicious  had  been 
her  relaxation,  when,  the  dinner  dishes  washed,  the 
table  reset  and  the  kitchen  in  scrupulous  order  with 
the  last  fly  vanquished,  she  and  Nellie  had  luxuri 
ated  in  that  exquisite  sense  of  leisure  that  only 
women  know  who  have  passed  triumphantly 
through  a  heavy  morning's  work  and  have  every 
thing  ready  for  the  evening.  Later  there  had  been 
the  stroll  down  to  the  field  in  the  shade  of  the  wan 
ing  afternoon,  to  find  out  what  time  the  men  would 
be  in  for  supper;  and  the  sheer  delight  of  breathing 
in  the  pungent  smell  of  the  straw  as  it  came  flying 
from  the  funnel,  looking,  with  the  sinking  sun 


244  DUST 

shining  through  it,  like  a  million  bees  swarming  from 
a  hive,  while  the  red-brown  grain  gushed,  a  lush 
stream,  into  the  waiting  wagon. 

"It  always  makes  me  think  of  a  ship  sailing  into 
port,  Nellie,"  Rose  had  once  exclaimed,  "the  crop 
coming  in.  It  gives  me  a  queer  kind  of  giddiness, 
makes  me  feel  like  laughing  and  crying  all  at  once," 
to  which  her  sister-in-law  had  returned  with  more 
than  her  usual  responsiveness:  "Yes,  it's  the  most 
excitin'  time  of  the  year,  unless  it's  Christmas." 

More  nebulous  were  the  memories  of  those 
early  mornings  when  she  had  paused  in  the  midst  of 
getting  breakfast  to  sniff  in  the  clover-laden  air  and 
think  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  only  she  needn't 
stay  in  the  hot,  stuffy  kitchen  but  could  be  free  to 
call  Bill  and  go  picnicking  or  loaf  deliciously  under 
one  of  the  big  elms.  Most  precious  of  all  —  the 
evenings  she  and  her  boy  had  sat  in  the  yard,  with 
the  cool  south  breeze  blowing  up  from  the  pasture, 
the  cows  looking  on  placidly,  the  frogs  fluting  rhyth 
mically  in  the  pond,  the  birds  chirping  their  good 
night  calls,  and  the  dip  and  swell  of  the  farm  land 
pulling  at  them  like  a  haunting  tune,  almost  too 
lovely  to  be  endured.  Oh,  there  had  been  moments 
all  the  sweeter  and  more  poignant  because  they  had 
been  so  fleeting. 

As  she  passed  successfully  through  one  whole 


THE    DUST    SETTLES  245 

round  of  planting,  harvesting  and  garnering  of 
grain,  she  began  to  realize  her  own  ability  and  to  be 
tempted  more  and  more  seriously  to  remain  on  the 
farm.  She  understood  it,  and  Martin  would  have 
liked  her  to  run  it.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  prob 
lem  of  keeping  dependable  hired  hands  and  the  sight 
of  the  mine-tipple,  which,  towering  on  the  adjoining 
farm,  reminded  her  more  and  more  constantly  of 
Bill,  she  would  not  even  have  considered  the  offer 
of  Gordon  Hamilton,  one  of  Fallon's  leading  busi 
ness  men,  to  buy  her  whole  section. 

"There's  a  bunch  going  into  this  deal,  together, 
Rose,"  Bert  Mall  explained.  "They  want  to  run 
a  new  branch  of  their  street  car  line  straight  through 
here  and  they're  going  to  plat  this  quarter  into 
streets  and  lots.  The  rest  they'll  split  up  into  sev 
eral  farms  and  rent  for  the  present.  It's  a  specula 
tion,  of  course,  but  the  way  the  mines  are  moving 
north  and  west  it's  likely  this'll  be  a  thickly  settled 
camp  in  another  two  or  three  years." 

"But  they  only  offer  seventy-five  an  acre,"  Rose 
expostulated,  "and  it's  worth  more  than  that  as  farm 
land.  There's  none  around  here  as  fertile  as  Martin 
made  this  —  and  then,  all  the  improvements!" 

"They'll  have  to  dispose  of  them  second-hand. 
It's  a  pity  they're  in  exactly  the  wrong  spot.  Well, 
of  course,  I'm  not  advising  you,  Rose,"  he  added, 


246  DUST 

"but  forty-five  thousand  ain't  to  be  sneezed  at,  is  it, 
when  it  comes  in  a  lump  and  you  own  only  the  sur 
face?  You  may  wait  a  long  while  before  you  get 
another  such  bid.  Seems  to  me  you've  worked 
hard  enough.  I'd  think  you'd  want  a  rest." 

In  the  end,  Mrs.  Wade  capitulated  to  what,  as 
Martin  had  foreseen  so  clearly,  was  sooner  or  later 
inevitable.  She  was  a  little  stunned  by  the  vast 
amount  of  available  money  now  in  her  possession 
and  at  her  disposal.  "But  it's  all  dust  in  my  hands," 
she  thought  sadly.  "What  do  I  want  of  so  much? 
It's  going  to  be  a  terrible  worry.  I  don't  even  know 
who  to  leave  it  to,"  and  she  sighed  deeply,  pressing 
her  hands,  with  her  old,  characteristic  gesture,  to 
her  heart.  Everybody  would  approve,  she  supposed, 
if  she  left  it  to  Rose  and  Frank  —  her  niece  and 
Martin's  nephew  —  but  she  couldn't  quite  bring  her 
self  to  welcome  that  idea  —  not  yet.  And  anyway 
it  might  be  better  to  divide  it  among  more  people,  so 
that  it  would  bring  more  happiness. 

Her  own  needs  were  simple.  The  modest  five- 
room  house  which  she  purchased  was  set  on  a 
pleasant  paved  street  in  Fallon  and  was  obviously 
ample  for  her.  She  hoped  that  during  part  of  each 
year  she  could  rent  the  extra  bed-room  to  some  one, 
preferably  a  boy,  like  Bill,  who  was  attending  high 
school.  There  was  a  barn  for  her  horse  and  the  one 


THE   DUST   SETTLES  247 

cow  she  would  keep,  a  neat  little  chicken-house  for 
the  twenty-five  hens  that  would  more  than  supply 
her  with  eggs  and  summer  fries,  and  a  small  garage 
for  Martin's  car.  It  would  seem  very  strange,  she 
thought,  to  have  so  few  things  to  care  for  and  she 
wondered  how  she  would  fill  her  time,  she  whose  one 
problem  always  had  been  how  to  achieve  snatches 
of  leisure.  She  saw  herself  jogging  on  and  on,  gradu 
ally  getting  to  be  less  able  on  her  feet,  a  little  more 
helpless,  until  she  was  one  of  those  feeble  old  ladies 
who  seem  at  the  very  antipodes  of  the  busy  mothers 
they  have  been  in  their  prime.  How  could  it  be 
that  she  who  had  always  been  in  such  demand,  so 
needed,  so  driven  by  real  duties,  should  have  become 
suddenly  such  a  supernumerary,  so  footloose,  and 
unattached? 

But  when  it  came  to  that,  wasn't  Fallon  full  of 
others  in  the  same  circumstances?  It  was  not  an 
uncommon  lot.  There  was  Mrs.  McMurray.  Rose 
remembered  over  what  a  jolly  household  she  had 
reigned  before  she,  too,  had  lost  her  husband  and 
three  children  instead  of  just  one,  like  Billy.  Two 
of  them  had  been  grown  and  married.  Now  she  was 
living  in  a  little  cottage,  all  alone,  doing  sewing  and 
nursing,  yet  always  so  brave  and  cheerful;  not  only 
that,  but  interested,  really  interested  in  living.  And 
Mrs.  Nelson.  Her  children  were  living  and  married 


248  DUST 

and  happy,  but  she  had  given  up  her  home,  sold  it  — 
the  pretty  place  with  the  hospitable  yard  that  used 
to  seem  to  be  fairly  spilling  over  with  wholesome, 
boisterous  boys  and  chatty,  beribboned  little  girls. 
She  was  rooming  with  a  family,  taking  her  meals  at 
a  restaurant,  keeping  up  her  zest  in  tomorrow  by 
running  a  shop.  She  thought  of  how  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Robinson,  gracious,  democratic  woman  of  wide 
sympathies  that  she  was,  had  lived  alone  after  David 
Robinson's  death,  taking  his  place  as  president  of 
the  bank,  during  the  years  her  only  daughter,  Janet, 
had  been  off  at  college  and  later  travelling  around 
the  country  "on  the  stage"  —  of  all  things  for  a 
daughter  of  Fallen.  When  hadn't  the  town  been 
full  of  these  widowed,  elderly  women  made  child 
less  alike  by  life  and  by  death?  What  others  had 
met  successfully,  she  could  also,  she  told  herself 
sternly,  and  still  the  old  Rose,  still  struggling  toward 
happiness,  she  tried  to  think  with  a  little  enthusiasm 
of  her  new  life,  of  the  things  she  would  do  for  others. 
One  recreation  she  would  be  able  to  enjoy  to  her 
heart's  content  when  she  moved  into  town  —  the 
movies.  They  would  tide  her  over,  she  felt  grate 
fully.  When  she  was  too  lonely,  she  would  go  to 
them  and  shed  her  own  troubles  and  problems  by 
absorption  in  those  of  others.  She  who  had  been 
married  for  years  and  had  borne  two  children  with- 


THE    DUST    SETTLES  249 

out  ever  having  had  the  joy  of  one  overwhelming 
kiss,  would  find  romance  at  last,  for  an  hour,  as  she 
identified  herself  with  the  charming  heroines  of  the 
films. 

She  was  to  surrender  the  farm  and  the  crops  as 
they  stood  in  June,  but  as  there  was  to  be  no  new 
immediate  tenant  in  her  old  house  it  was  easily  ar 
ranged  that  she  could  continue  in  it  until  the  cottage 
in  Fallon  would  be  empty  in  September. 

Meanwhile,  preparations  were  begun  for  the  new 
car  line  which  would  pass  where  the  big  dairy  barn 
was  standing.  As  the  latter  went  down,  board  by 
board,  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Wade  that  this  structure 
which,  in  the  building,  had  been  the  sign  and  sym 
bol  of  her  surrender  and  heartbreak,  now  in  its  de 
struction,  typified  Martin's  life.  It  was  as  if  Martin, 
himself,  were  being  torn  limb  from  limb.  All  that 
he  had  built  would  soon  be  dust.  The  sound  of  the 
cement  breaking  under  the  heavy  sledges,  was  al 
most  more  than  she  could  bear.  It  was  a  relief  to 
have  the  smaller  buildings  dragged  bodily  to  other 
parts  of  the  farm. 

Only  once  before  in  her  memory  had  there  been 
such  a  summer  and  such  a  drought.  The  corn  leaves 
burned  to  a  crisp  brown,  the  ground  cracked  and 
broke  into  cakes  and  dust  piled  high  in  thick, 
velvety  folds  on  weeds  and  grass.  It  seemed  too 


250  DUST 

strange  for  words  to  see  others  harvest  the  wheat 
and  to  know  that  the  usual  crop  could  not  be  put 
in. 

Rose  was  thankful  when  her  last  evening  came. 
Most  of  her  furniture  had  been  moved  in  the  morn 
ing,  her  boxes  had  left  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  last 
little  accessories  were  now  piled  in  the  car.  As,  hand 
on  the  wheel,  she  paused  a  moment  before  starting, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  choking  sensation.  It  was 
over,  finished  —  she,  the  last  of  Martin,  was  leaving 
it,  for  good.  Before  her  rolled  the  quarter  section, 
except  for  the  little  box-house,  as  bare  of  fences  and 
buildings  as  when  the  Wades  had  first  camped  on 
it  in  their  prairie  schooner.  With  what  strange  pro 
phetic  vision  had  Martin  foreseen  so  clearly  that 
all  the  construction  of  his  life  would  crumble. 
Would  Jacob  and  Sarah  Wade  have  had  the  courage 
to  make  all  their  sacrifices,  she  wondered,  if  they 
had  known  that  she  and  she  alone,  daughter  of  a 
Patrick  and  Norah  Conroy,  whom  they  had  never 
seen,  would  some  day  stand  there  profiting  by  it  all? 
She  thought  of  the  mortgages  in  the  bank  and  the 
bonds,  of  the  easier  life  she  seemed  to  be  entering. 
How  strange  that  she  whom  Grandfather  and 
Grandmother  Wade  had  not  even  known,  she  whom 
Martin  had  never  loved,  should  be  the  one  to  reap 
the  real  benefits  from  their  planning,  and  that  the 


THE  DUST   SETTLES  251 

farm  itself,  for  which  her  husband  had  been  willing 
to  sacrifice  Billy  and  herself,  should  be  utterly  de 
stroyed.  A  sudden  breeze  caught  up  some  of  the 
dust  and  whirling  it  around  let  it  fall.  "Martin's 
life/7  thought  Rose,  "it  was  like  a  handful  of  dust 
thrown  into  God's  face  and  blown  back  again  by  the 
wind  to  the  ground." 

THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


SANTA 


INTER  LIBRARY 
LOAN 

E  MOS3TH  AFTER  RECHP1 
'" 

S7,v 

APR  7    1955 


•(WTO. DISC  MAY 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


IB  32857 


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